7 


b 


AN  AVERAGE  WOMAN 
W.  DANE  BANK 


W.    DANE    BANK 

AUTHOR     OF     "JAMES."     "TREASURE."     ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


PART  ONE:  THE  DAZZLING  MAID 


2134170 


AN  AVERAGE  WOMAN 

PART  ONE:    THE  DAZZLING  MAID 
CHAPTER  I 


"TfMMIE   BOLLINS    fancies  herself,"   said  Lizzie 

••—  '  Smaile. 

And  Lizzie  was  probably  not  far  from  the  truth.  The 
phrase  too  is  illuminating.  Emmie  "  fancied  "  herself  in 
more  ways  than  one,  and  in  more  situations  than  one 
if  the  truth  were  known.  Emmie  "  fancied  "  herself  to 
this  extent  :  she  considered  herself  superior  (the  real 
superiority  not  very  clearly  defined)  to  the  other  occu- 
pants of  the  trimming-room.  Superior  is  not  quite  the 
exact  word.  Emmie  knew  she  did  not  speak  "  so  re- 
fined "  as  Miss  Black,  who  said  "  Yes  "  with  a  mince  and 
not  "  Ay  "  and  never  indulged  in  the  Lancashire  dialect. 
And  yet  Emmie  was  capable  of  shaking  her  head  and 
saying  "  Miss  Black  "...  and  feeling  she  didn't  care  a 
brass  farthing  for  Miss  Black.  Who  was  Miss  Black 
if  er  ...  if  chaps  were  about,  eh?  Miss  Black  could 
say  "  Yes  "  and  "  No  "  and  "  It's  a  very  nice  day,  is  it 
not?"  in  a  style  that  was  probably  very  proper  and  all 
that,  but  she  was  forty  if  she  was  a  day.  .  .  .  Not  much 
good  her  "It's  a  very  nice  day,  is  it  not?"  (Imagine 
this  being  said  in  a  very  prisms  and  prunes  manner) 
had  done  her  !  No,  Emmie  refused  to  concede  anything 
of  vital  importance  to  Miss  Black. 

7 


8  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

There  were,  of  course,  others  in  the  trimming-room 
who  were  full  of  importance  in  their  way,  but  Emmie 
had  that  same  feeling  —  she  didn't  care  for  any  of  them. 
The  phrase  must  not  be  taken  too  literally:  it  must  be 
treated  indulgently  and  understood  as  an  attitude,  for 
Emmie  had  a  heart  and  cared  for  Miss  Black,  for  in- 
stance, as  well  as  for  Lizzie  Smaile  and  others. 

Who  can  understand  the  pretty  girl?  Herself  least 
of  all. 

Emmie  was  pretty.  Some  praised  her  extravagantly; 
others  merely  said,  "  Yes  ...  all  right  " —  opinions  dif- 
fer. But  nobody  suggested  she  approached  ugliness. 
Also  she  had  a  tongue  which  is  valuable  in  anybody's 
mouth,  but  almost  an  unfair  advantage  in  the  head  of 
a  pretty  woman.  Emmie's  tongue  was  mostly  of  the 
defensive  kind.  She  could  hit  back,  defend  herself  with 
it,  use  it  as  a  weapon  for  trench  warfare,  but  could  in- 
dulge in  "  grenade  "  work  if  pushed  to  it. 

Emmie  in  a  shawl,  which  she  wore  occasionally  go- 
ing to  and  from  work:  Emmie  in  clogs,  which  she 
wore  only  on  very  dirty  and  bad  days,  was  not  to  be 
passed  over  as  of  no  or  little  account;  but  the  Emmie  who 
was  dressed  in  her  Sunday  best  was  as  likely  to  attract  at- 
tention as  anybody  in  Canton. 

Emmie's  hair  was  black  and  her  eyes  a  fine  rich  brown, 
though  the  colour  was  not  all  at  first  glance.  She  had 
a  way  of  letting  you  see  only  half  her  eyes  to  begin 
with,  as  if  she  were  shy  and  looked  at  you  cautiously, 
or  as  if  there  was  something  to  be  hidden  till  she  was  sure 
who  looked.  Her  black  brows,  well  marked,  seemed  to 
protect  these  modest  looking  eyes  a  little,  and  then  some' 
pertinacity  on  the  part  of  the  male  or  a  little  more  con- 
fidence (or  maybe  feminine  armoury)  on  Emmie's  part 
and  the  lids  were  fully  raised  while  the  brown  eyes  blazed 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 


or  signalled  a  wealth  of  something  attractive.  Emmie 
had  seen  more  than  one  man  mutter  as  these  lids  of  hers 
went  up  and  the  eyes  were  glorious  as  Psyche  at  her 
bath.  Her  nose  was  inclined  to  the  snub,  but  it  looked 
pretty  and  became  her,  for  she  had  a  neat,  shapely  mouth 
and  her  face  was  beautifully  rounded  about  her  chin, 
which  was  full  and  told  its  affectionate  tale. 

Emmie  had  had  many  admirers.  Shapers,  body  mak- 
ers, Finishers,  men  from  the  warehouse  and  men  who  had 
no  connection  with  hatting  at  alL  Emmie  was  not  afraid 
to  talk  to  a  stranger  or  to  walk  with  him,  for  that  matter. 
She  had  picked  up  many  strangers,  or  been  picked  up 
would  be  politer,  perhaps,  on  her  Saturday  evening  ex- 
cursions to  Hyde  or  Ashton  or  Manchester,  but  she 
walked  out  with  nobody  officially  or  possessedly. 

"  Coin'  out  with  that  there  chap  as  you  were  with  last 
Sat'dy  ?  "  asked  Alice  Cannel,  Emmie's  friend. 

"  No  fear.     Had  enough  of  him." 

"  You  soon  have  enough  of  'em." 

"Well,  that  chap!  .  .  ." 

"  It's  always  that  chap." 

Emmie  laughed.  As  she  laughed  she  felt  inside  her 
a  chuckle  of  keen  satisfaction.  It  was  as  if  she  were 
confident  she  would  make  a  fool  of  herself  if  she  got 
really  tied  to  any  of  these  young  men  she  met  on  Satur- 
day night.  The  feeling  was  the  note  of  satisfaction  she 
carried  with  her  —  satisfaction  plus  a  fair  amount  of 
joyousness.  She  was  pretty;  she  attracted;  she  felt  her 
power;  why  should  she  get  married  in  a  hurry? 

"  You'll  get  caught  one  of  these  days,"  said  Alice. 

"Shall  I?" 

The  note  was  one  of  absolute  self-confidence. 

"  You  will  that,"  Alice  laughed.  "  Head  o'er  heels 
too,  ah'll  bet,  when  it  does  happen." 


10  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  Shove  him  head  over  heels  more  like." 

"Oh  ...  ay." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  caught  yet,  am  I?  " 

"  You  say  not.     What  about  Ted  Bromley?  " 

"  Him.  ..."     Emmie  flared. 

"  Oh !  You  needn't  look  so  fierce.  .  .  .  You  were 
laughin'  an'  carryin'  on  at  Ashton  t'other  week." 

"  Ted  Bromley."     Emmie  shook  herself. 

"  What's  up  with  him?  "  Alice  asked. 

"  Up  with  him  ?  .  .  .  I  don't  know  what's  up  with 
him :  he  can  go  up  to  Jericho  for  all  I  care :  I  know  that's 
up  with  him.  .  .  .  Ted  Bromley.  .  .  ."  She  shook  her- 
self. "  I  wouldn't  have  him  if  I  were  thirty  and 
squinted." 

Alice  laughed. 

"  You  and  your  thirty  and  squints.  .  .  .  You  wait. 
.  .  .  You  wait.  .  .  ." 

"  I'll  wait  right  enough." 

But  Emmie  knew  she  had  in  her  that  which  did  not 
desire  to  wait  too  long.  She  liked  men,  liked  to  be  near 
them  and  with  them,  note  their  admiration  of  her  and  feel 
the  influence  she  had  on  them.  She  might  scorn  Ted 
Bromley  as  a  husband,  but  she  was  pleased  on  occasions 
to  get  his  mead  of  homage. 

There  were  moments  when  she  felt  a  little  afraid  of 
the  future.  But  almost  immediately  she  would  assure 
herself  with  the  thought:  I  can  take  care  of  myself. 
She  felt  that  instinctively  and  strongly.  And  yet.  .  .  . 
But  she  had  no  fear.  Even  if  she  liked  men  and  greatly 
desired  affection,  she  also  had  a  level  head  and  a  sense 
of  duty.  She  worked  well,  earned  an  excellent  wage 
and  helped  her  mother  at  home.  But  she  must  indulge 
herself. 

What  was  life  if  you  didn't  enjoy  yourself?    She  was 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  11 

going  to  enjoy  herself.  Nice  chance  she'd  have  after  she 
was  married.  .  .  . 

Married?  .  .  .  Ted  Bromley.  .  .  .  He  was  a  body- 
maker.  .  .  .  No  fear.  She'd  rather  have  that  chap  who 
was  in  a  warehouse  in  Manchester  that  she  met  at  Belle 
Vue  once.  He  was  all  right  .  .  .  dressed  well  and  talked 
well.  But  she  was  certainly  not  going  to  have  a  body- 
maker  like  Ted  Bromley.  She  could  do  better  than  that. 
But  she  wasn't  going  to  marry  anybody  yet.  .  .  .  Not 
yet.  .  .  . 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  The  black  hair 
shone  in  its  fine  thick  folds;  the  black  eyebrows  covered 
those  quizzing  eyes.  She  only  looked  at  herself  curiously 
to  begin  with.  Then  she  raised  her  head  with  a  jerk, 
opened  her  eyes  wide,  remarked  the  beautiful  line  of  her 
round  chin  and  the  beautiful  shape  and  colour  of  her 
neck.  .  .  . 

She  looked  a  trifle  disdainful ;  certainly  satisfied. 

It  was  as  if  she  said,  "  Am  I,  with  this  face,  to  marry 
Ted  Bromley?"  She  said,  of  course,  nothing  of  the 
kind;  but  the  feeling  was  there. 

Emmie  Bollins  worked  as  a  trimmer  at  T.  Booke  & 
Son's.  She  was  a  quick  worker  and  was  able  in  good 
times  to  earn  thirty  shillings  a  week  —  even  more  if  she 
cared  to  sit  up  late,  for  in  this  year,  1885,  trimmers  were 
allowed  to  take  hats  to  their  homes  and  work  at  them 
there.  Legislation  has  practically  put  an  end  to  that, 
and  incidentally  made  many  a  home  in  Canton  much  less 
untidy  and  uncomfortable. 

The  trimming-room  at  "  Booke's  "  was  a  fairly  large 
one,  sufficient  to  accommodate  about  sixty  workers, 
though  as  a  rule  there  were  generally  not  more  than 
forty  there.  There  were  eight  tables  in  the  room,  and  the 


12  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

trimmers  sat  four  on  each  side.  They  used  to  have  the 
work  handed  to  them  by  the  "  giver-out " ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  hat  with  nothing  sewn  on  it  was  passed  to  the  trimmer 
with  the  necessary  trimmings  —  band  and  binding  to  go 
respectively  round  the  crown  and  brim,  and  the  leather 
and  lining  (if  a  lined  hat)  for  the  inside.  As  a  rule  the 
hats  would  be  given  out  by  the  half  dozen;  occasionally  a 
trimmer  might  get  more,  generally  less.  She  took  them 
to  the  workroom,  sat  at  her  place  and  began  her  work. 

The  lining,  which  was  a  strip  of  silk  and  a  flat  piece, 
generally  stamped  with  the  name  of  the  retailer  so  that 
his  advertisement  should  be  carried  by  the  wearer  wher- 
ever the  hat  went,  was  put  together  with  needle  and 
thread,  some  paper  and  paste.  The  leather  was  cut  so 
that  it  would  just  fit  the  hat  and  was  then  laboriously 
sewn  in  with  even  stitches,  having  a  piece  of  whipcord 
at  the  top  to  give  it  more  neatness.  The  leather  is  put 
in  with  less  trouble  nowadays,  as  the  whipcord  is  at- 
tached first  by  machine. 

The  needle  made  a  click  as  it  went  through  the  stiff 
felt  of  the  hat,  and  one  could  tell  the  speed  at  which  a 
trimmer  worked  by  the  almost  rhythmical  sound  of  the 
stitch. 

When  the  hats  were  trimmed  they  were  taken  to  the 
forewoman  or  giver-out,  who  examined  them  to  see  that 
the  work  had  been  properly  done;  that  the  bow  on  the 
band  was  in  the  correct  place,  the  binding  neatly  sewn, 
or  the  stitches  in  the  leather  were  regular  and  close  — 
not  a  few  together  and  then  a  gap  and  then  another 
crowd,  and  so  on  —  and  the  lining  well  made,  the  stamp 
in  the  centre,  etc.  If  all  was  well  the  trimmer  was 
credited  in  her  book  with  the  amount  she  had  earned, 
and  given  fresh  work  if  there  was  fresh  work  to  be  done. 
If  the  work  was  badly  done  it  was  handed  back  to  be 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  13 

done  again,  and  trimmers  did  not  like,  any  more  than 
other  people,  to  do  their  work  twice. 

One  can  see  that  these  women  and  girls  on  piece  work 
might  earn  much  or  little,  according  to  their  capacity. 
A  poor  worker  was  no  good  at  all,  for  she  took  up  space 
in  the  trimming-room  and  might  keep  work  back  in  busy 
times.  Generally  the  trimmers  were  happy.  They  had 
their  freedom  and  they  earned  very  fair  wages  —  an  ex- 
cellent combination  in  a  woman  worker's  eyes.  More- 
over, there  was  no  restraint  on  tongues  in  the  trimming- 
room;  also  a  consideration.  Sometimes  laughter  pealed 
from  it,  till  Miss  Frisby,  the  "  giver-out,"  feeling  wildly 
curious  to  know  what  it  was  all  about,  and  also  a  little 
jealous  that  she  was  out  of  it,  would  be  inclined  to  go 
upstairs  and  tell  them  to  make  less  noise,  only  if  she  did 
that  she  was  afraid  she  might  not  get  to  know  the  cause 
of  the  laughter,  and  so  used  to  wait  till  the  next  trimmer 
came  down. 

"  Somebody's  laughing  upstairs,"  she  would  say. 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"Er.  .  .  .  What  is  it?" 

"  It's  Emmie  Bollins  and  Alice  Cannel." 

"  Those  two.  .  .  ."  She  wondered  why  on  earth  the 
trimmer  couldn't  tell  her  the  tale. 

"  They've  been  telling  us  about  two  chaps  they  met  at 
Ashton,  an'  promised  to  meet  again  —  and  never  went.'' 

"T't!  T't!  T't!  Miss  Frisby  looked  properly 
shocked. 

"  Alice  said  her  chap  was  dressed  up  to  the  nines,  an' 
wanted  to  come  an'  see  her  home.  But  when  Emmie's 
fellow  swung  on  too  Emmie  said,  '  Here,  clear  out ;  we've 
got  the  footman  waitin'  for  us,  an'  we  mustn't  let  him 
see  us  with  you  lot.' ' 

The   trimmer  laughed   again   at   the  joke,   and   Miss 


i4  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Frisby  said  "Oh!"  and  chuckled  herself,  and  thought 
what  a  glorious  thing  life  was  if  you  could  only  catch  it, 
instead  of  letting  it  go  past. 

"  Those  two,"  she  said,  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 
"  Well,  tell  them  not  to  make  so  much  noise."  She 
could  afford  to  tell  them  to  be  quiet,  now  she  knew  what 
the  story  was. 

The  trimmer  nodded  and  went  upstairs  as  Miss  Frisby 
pulled  down  the  clap. 

"  Not  to  make  so  much  row,"  said  the  trimmer,  as  she 
entered  the  workroom. 

"  Who  says?  "  asked  Alice  Cannel. 

"  Miss  Frisby." 

"  Her! "  And  there  were  defiant  laughs.  "  She 
wants  a  chap's  arm  round  her,  and  then  she'd  make  row 
enough." 

And  there  was  a  scream  of  laughter  from  the  young 
girls,  while  the  elder  ones,  married  and  single,  looked  at 
one  another  and  enjoyed  the  remark,  but  went  on  busily 
with  that  click,  click,  click,  click  of  the  stitch  in  the 
hat. 

Men  had  occasions  to  go  to  the  trimming-room,  and 
their  attitudes  were  always  well  noticed  by  the  trimmers. 
There  was  young  Mr.  Timothy,  who  walked  about  them 
with  a  certain  ease  and  with  an  air  that  told  the  more 
alert  and  keen  that  he  quite  realised  he  was  amongst 
women,  some  of  them  young  and  pretty. 

There  was  also  Mr.  Sims  from  the  warehouse,  a  young 
man  with  big  blue  eyes  and  a  lot  of  straight  hair,  who 
had  now  and  then  to  look  after  a  hat  that  was  being 
trimmed.  He  was  nervous  the  moment  he  opened  the 
door.  Most  of  the  women  were  bending  over  their  hats, 
which  they  held  on  their  knees  as  they  worked,  but  they 
always  had  to  look  up  to  see  who  it  was  that  had  entered. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 


The  married  and  elder  ones  went  on  with  their  work  as 
if  there  was  nothing  to  disturb  their  equanimity  in  the 
presence  of  this  light-complexioned  man  from  the  ware- 
house. But  the  younger  women  —  Emmie  Bollins,  Alice 
Cannel,  Lizzie  Smaile,  and  many  others  —  began  to  look 
at  one  another  furtively.  One  of  them  would  even  ven- 
ture to  cough  and  giggle.  They  were  all  feeling :  "  Isn't 
he  nervous  ?  It's  we  girls  that  make  him  like  that.  .  .  ." 
And  they  thoroughly  enjoyed  what  they  considered  to  be 
a  manifestation  of  feminine  power  and  triumph. 

Mr.  Sims  had  to  go  to  one  of  these  younger  ones  occa- 
sionally, and  then  she  was  made  somewhat  nervous  by 
the  little  coughs  and  sniggers  of  the  others;  and  when 
Mr.  Sims  had  gone  their  tongues  would  clack  fifteen  to 
the  dozen. 

"  Alice,  he  did  look  at  you !  ...  That'll  be  all  right." 

"  Well,  he'd  something  to  look  at,"  retorted  Alice, 
scarlet  with  the  attention.  "  But  I  want  none  of  him ; 
he's  half  rocked." 

"  He's  as  feeart  as  a  canary,  is  that  mon,"  said  Mary 
Blake  once;  and  the  trimmers  shouted  with  glee  and 
called  Sims  "  Canary  "  behind  his  back  ever  after. 

Mr.  Bilson,  the  traveller,  was  of  another  breed.  He 
was  dark  and  gazed,  rather  than  glanced,  at  the  girls. 
He  would  stride  in  the  trimming-room  as  if  he  were  on 
his  own  domestic  hearth,  and  could  joke  and  look  at  any 
of  them  without  turning  a  hair  or  appearing  the  least 
bit  shy.  In  fact,  he  stared  deliberately,  on  occasions,  at 
some  of  them;  and  most  of  them,  though  they  felt  they 
would  like  to  stare  him  out,  never  dared  to  put  their  fate 
to  the  test  when  the  opportunity  presented  itself. 

Emmie  did  look  at  him  once  and  caught  his  eye.  His 
eye  hung  on  the  gaze.  Emmie  tried  bravado;  she  was 
not  going  to  be  stared  at  like  that.  .  .  .  But  she  could 


16  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

not  keep  it  up.  And  when  he  had  gone  she  looked 
furious. 

"  Brazen  face,"  she  gasped. 

The  others  laughed. 

"  He  has  a  nerve,  that  Mester  Bilson." 

"  I'd  like  to  slap  his  face,"  said  Emmie,  still  excited 
that  the  man  should  have  treated  her  as  so  much  sub- 
missive material,  staring  at  her  like  that.  .  .  . 

"  I  never  look  at  him,"  said  Lizzie  Smaile.  "  No  fear. 
He  regular  hooks  his  eyes  on  you  if  you  start  lookin'  at 
him.  .  .  .  No,  I  let  Mester  Bilson  see  th'  back  o'  my 
head  —  that's  enough  for  him." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  said  Alice  Cannel  wickedly,  and  there 
followed  some  sharp  words  and  phrases  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  laughter  and  other  people's  remarks  and  always 
that  click,  click,  click,  as  the  needle  went  through  the  hat. 

It  was  Saturday  morning,  always  a  morning  different 
from  any  other  of  the  week.  It  was  a  half  day  and  a 
pay  day.  There  was  a  general  unwillingness  to  begin 
anything  really  big  that  morning.  The  atmosphere  was 
unsettling  except  in  busy  times  when  work  dominated 
and  hats  seemed  to  multiply  unconscionably  and  almost 
called  to  be  trimmed  at  once,  so  that  they  could  go  out 
in  the  world  and  live  their  gay  lives. 

The  trimming-room  was  swept  every  morning  —  water 
was  splashed  on  the  floor  and  the  dust  carefully  gathered 
up  with  all  the  pieces  of  paper,  the  bits  of  silk  and  satin 
cut  from  linings,  the  ends  of  leathers  and  bands,  et 
cetera. 

As  the  trimmers  arrived  they  took  off  hats  and  coats  or 
shawls,  and  some  of  them  changed  the  boots  they  had 
walked  in  for  slippers  and  old  boots  —  some  for  ease,  but 
mostly  for  economy.  Some  of  them  carried  big,  black 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  17 

stuff  bags  in  which  were  the  hats  they  had  taken  home 
to  trim,  and  were  now  brought  back  finished. 

Many  of  these  were  trimmed  by  the  mothers  of  the 
girls,  who  were  enabled  in  that  way  to  earn  money  at 
home. 

Some  of  the  trimmers  had  work  to  do  the  moment  they 
arrived ;  others  had  to  go  and  ask  Miss  Frisby  if  she  had 
any  hats  for  them.  The  fact  that  the  trimmers  were 
"  on  piece  work  "  gave  them  a  sense  of  freedom,  and 
they  never  felt  the  need  to  observe  a  punctuality  that  was 
incumbent  on  those  who  were  paid  a  definite  weekly 
wage. 

There  was  always  a  buzz  of  conversation  to  start  the 
morning's  work.  Some  of  the  trimmers  brought  sew- 
ing of  their  own  to  do  in  case  there  were  no  hats  for 
them  to  trim,  and  they  were  always  ready  to  hear  and 
retail  the  latest  bits  of  gossip.  There  were  no  halfpenny 
morning  papers  then,  and  the  only  newspapers  most  of  the 
trimmers  ever  read  were  the  local  sheets  or  the  Man- 
chester Weekly  Times,  the  Sunday  Chronicle  or  Umpire, 
the  first  for  its  stories  and  the  others  glanced  at  curiously 
after  fathers  or  husbands  or  brothers  had  read  them. 

Emmie  Bollins  and  Alice  Cannel  sat  next  to  one  an- 
other at  the  same  table.  Neither  had  any  work  to  do 
this  particular  morning  —  at  least  none  that  was  so  urgent 
as  the  bodice  Alice  was  finishing  or  the  hat  Emmie  was 
trimming  for  herself.  They  helped  each  other  with 
criticism  and  suggestion. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  to-night  ?  "  Alice  said. 

"  Dunno.  .  .  .  Not  going  to  Ashton  this  Saturday," , 
said  Emmie,  as  she  bit  her  thread. 

"  Why?  "     Alice  guessed  the  reason. 

Emmie  gave  a  little  grunt  and  shook  her  shoulders. 
Then  she  laughed. 


18  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

And  then  they  both  stopped  their  work  and  laughed 
and  laughed,  till  the  others  watched  them  with  interest 
and  a  tickling  inquisitiveness  that  had  ultimately  to  melt 
in  a  contagious  laughter. 

"  Them  two ! "  said  Alice,  with  tears  on  her  cheeks. 

"  Old  corncrake !  "  said  Emmie  with  contempt,  and 
then  she  quickly  burst  into  laughter  again.  Clearly  they 
were  thinking  of  the  chaps  they  had  been  with  the  pre- 
vious Saturday. 

"  We  haven't  been  to  Belle  Vue  for  a  long  while,"  said 
Alice. 

"No " 

"Shall  we  go?" 

"  Don't  mind." 

"  We  can  always  have  a  bit  o'  fun  there !  " 

"  Um.     An'  th'  fireworks  are  on,  aren't  they?" 

"  Ay.     Well,  I'll  call  for  you,  shall  I,  after  tea  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I'll  be  ready.  Half  past  five  or  a  quarter  to 
six?" 

"  Right.  .  .  .  Suppose  we  see  them  two  again  ?  " 

"  Push  'em  in  t'  lake ! "  said  Emmie  quickly,  and  then 
they  burst  into  laughter  once  more,  while  Miss  Balke, 
at  the  end  of  the  table,  said:  "  You  girls.  T't,  t't  .  .  . 
I  wonder  what  mischief  you're  up  to?  " 

Alice  whispered :  "  A  bit  what  she'd  like  to  be  up  to 
if  she  could." 

Emmie  giggled  and  bent  over  her  hat  to  hide  her  emo- 
tion. 

The  morning  passed  away  in  its  usual  way.  Some  of 
those  who  had  no  hats  to  trim  went  home  and  left  their 
wages  to  be  collected  by  friends. 

Alice  and  Emmie  finished  their  private  dressmaking 
and  millinery  in  good  time  and  to  their  complete  satis- 
faction, and  were  quite  ready  to  get  their  money  when 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  19 

they  received  the  news  that  it  was  obtainable.  Emmie's 
earnings  that  particular  Saturday  were  one  pound  five 
shillings  and  sixpence. 

She  and  Alice  left  the  works  together.  They  were 
both  neatly  dressed,  but  not,  of  course,  showily.  The 
black  aprons  they  wore  in  the  trimming-room  were  left 
behind.  Emmie  wore  her  new  hat  and  felt  quite  fittingly 
adorned.  The  two  friends  parted  almost  at  the  gates 
of  the  factory,  for  Emmie  lived  quite  near  and  Alice  had 
to  go  in  another  direction. 

They  reminded  each  other  of  the  evening's  programme. 

"  Don't  forget,  Alice." 

"  I  won't.     And  you  be  ready." 

"  I'll  be  ready,  right  enough." 

"Yes,  like  you  were  last  time  —  kept  me  half  an 
hour." 

"  Oh !  Go  on  wi'  your  gabble !  .  .  .  Half  past  five  — 
not  later  than  a  quarter  to  six." 

"Right!" 

Young  men  that  Emmie  knew  nodded  to  her  smil- 
ingly as  they  passed  her,  and  gave  her  a  little  pleasure 
by  the  lingering  way  they  looked. 

She  went  to  a  shop  that  was  really  a  converted  private 
house,  where  a  widow  sold  home  made  bread,  and  bought 
four  big  hot  currant  cakes.  She  did  this  every  Satur- 
day as  a  treat  for  the  family. 

Emmie  lived  with  her  father  and  mother  and  sister  in 
a  little  house  in  Silton  Street.  There  were  two  rooms 
downstairs  and  two  up,  with  a  yard,  where  coals  could 
be  stored  at  the  back.  The  range  was  in  the  front  room, 
which  was  living-room,  and  the  scullery  in  the  rear  con- 
tained a  slop  stone  as  well  as  a  copper  for  washing. 

The  front  door  was  generally  open,  as  it  was  of  most 
of  the  houses  in  that  street,  for  it  let  in  fresh  air,  and  it 


20  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

was  easier  for  anybody  inside  to  see  who  was  passing 
and  what  was  going  on  outside.  One  walked  straight 
from  the  street  into  this  front  room,  where  there  was  a 
dresser  to  the  right  which  had  on  it  some  lustre  orna- 
ments, some  wax  flowers  under  a  glass  shade  and  a  little 
marble  cross,  also  under  glass.  The  household  linen, 
cutlery  and  all  kinds  of  things,  were  kept  in  the  drawers. 
There  was  a  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with 
a  white  cloth  on  it  that  had  been  there  since  the  preced- 
ing Sunday.  On  Sunday  a  clean  cloth  was  used,  and  in 
the  afternoon  a  dark  green  one  was  taken  off  the  dresser 
and  put  on  the  table.  At  supper  time  the  white  cloth 
took  its  place,  and  till  the  following  Sunday  it  was  not 
thought  worth  while  to  take  it  off  again. 

There  was  a  horsehair  sofa  against  the  wall,  a  curious 
wire  arrangement  for  plants  under  the  window,  and  four 
wooden  chairs.  On  Saturday  afternoon,  when  the  clean- 
ing was  done,  a  hearth  rug  made  of  pieces  of  felt  was 
spread  near  the  shining  fender.  There  was  no  carpet 
on  the  floor,  but  oilcloth,  which  was  badly  worn  in  cer- 
tain flagrant  spots. 

Mrs.  Bollins  was  in  the  scullery  when  Emmie  reached 
home. 

"Mother!" 

"  That  you,  Emmie  ?  " 

"Yes.     Sarah  come?" 

"  Not  yet." 

"  I  thought  they  weren't  busy  at  Gibbs  &  Sons." 

"  She's  stopped  talking,  I  reckon." 

Mrs.  Bollins  emerged  from  the  scullery,  wiping  her 
hands  and  arms  and  looking  tired. 

Emmie  put  the  cakes  on  the  table. 

Mrs.  Bollins  said:     "  That  your  new  hat?  " 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  21 

"Yes;  like  it?" 

"  Yes.  Looks  very  well.  Eh !  You  girls  do  spend 
money  on  clothes." 

"  Well.  .  .  .  Here  you  are,  Mother,"  and  Emmie 
handed  her  mother  fifteen  shillings. 

Mrs.  Bollins  counted  it.  She  was  content.  If  only 
the  other  girl  did  as  much  and  the  father  did  his  share, 
Mrs.  Bollins  felt  she  would  have  no  worries  at  home. 
But  Sarah  didn't  make  as  much  as  Emmie,  and  some 
weeks  only  drew  ten  shillings,  though  now  and  again  her 
book  mounted  to  seventeen  or  eighteen  shillings  in  the 
busy  season.  But  Emmie  was  a  glutton  for  work  when 
there  was  work  to  be  done. 

Mrs.  Bollins  wrapped  up  the  money  in  a  piece  of  paper 
and  put  it  in  a  corner  of  one  of  the  dresser  drawers 
under  some  sheets. 

"  Reckon  you  could  do  with  some  tea,"  said  Mrs. 
Bollins. 

"  I  could  that." 

Emmie  had  got  her  hat  in  her  hand  and  was  looking 
at  it. 

"  This'll  go  well  with  that  red  dress,  won't  it?" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  That  'ud  go  with  anything  .  .  .  black, 
like  that.  .  .  ." 

"  Urn.  .  .  .  Looks  stylish." 

"  Well,  don't  go  and  make  a  fool  of  yourself  wi'  all 
your  stylish  things." 

Emmie  laughed. 

"  I  shall  make  no  fool  o'  myself,"  she  said,  as  she  put 
her  hat  on  the  dresser,  near  the  wax  flowers.  "Father 
not  come  yet?  " 

"  No." 

"  Let's  have  some  tea,  Mother,"  said  Emmie,  as  she 
took  hold  of  one  of  the  cakes,  broke  it  and  began  to  eat. 


22  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Mrs.  Bollins  sat  down  and  then  rose  the  next  min- 
ute. 

"  Ah  shall  forget  mi  'ead  next."  She  spoke  very 
quietly,  as  if  she  were  very  tired.  "  Here  I  am  sittin' 
down  an'  no  tea  in  t'  pot." 

Like  so  many  people  in  Canton,  Mrs.  Bollins  could  not 
be  relied  on  to  speak  with  a  consistent  accent.  Occa- 
sionally she  was  almost  broad,  particularly  with  those 
who  spoke  broadly  or  when  she  was  tired ;  at  other  times 
her  speech,  though  preserving  its  Lancashire  note,  can 
fairly  be  reproduced  with  correct  spelling. 

Emmie  pushed  her  mother  back  in  her  chair. 

"  You  sit  down ;  I'll  put  the  kettle  on.  These  cakes 
aren't  bad  to-day." 

"  No.  .  .  .  But  they  soon  go  stale  if  you  don't  eat  'em 
quick." 

"  Mrs.  Short  was  buyin'  two  when  I  was  in  t'  shop." 

"Was  she?" 

Emmie,  having  filled  the  kettle  at  the  slopstone  tap, 
put  it  on  the  fire. 

"  It'll  soon  boil,"  she  said. 

"  There's  some  potatoes  in  a  dish  in  t'  scullery,  if  you'd 
like  to  fry  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins. 

"  No,"  said  Emmie  quickly.  "  This'll  do  me,"  mean- 
ing she  would  have  quite  a  sufficient  dinner  with  the  tea 
cake  she  was  eating.  "  I'll  make  some  potato  cakes  for 
tea,  shall  I?" 

"  If  you  like.  .  .  .  Your  father  likes  'em." 

Emmie  laughed.  "  An'  so  do  you.  I'll  make  some." 
She  stuffed  another  piece  of  the  cake  in  her  mouth  and 
spoke  in  a  muffled  tone.  "  Sha-ah  mop-er." 

Mrs.  Bollins  seemed  to  grasp  easily  enough  the  mix- 
ture of  mastication  and  speech  as  signifying  "  Shall  I 
mop  this?"  for  she  said  readily:  "If  you  like.  I've 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  23 

got  a  bit  o'  washing  to  finish  an'  your  father'll  do  th' 
yard." 

Emmie  put  tea  in  the  pot,  reached  down  a  couple  of 
cups  and  saucers  from  the  cupboard  and  then  put  on  a 
big  white  apron.  She  moved  about  with  alertness  and 
energy. 

Sarah,  her  sister,  came  in. 

Mrs.  Bollins  looked  at  her.  She  was  saying  vaguely 
to  herself  that  she  would  have  some  more  money  now, 
but  not  so  much  as  Emmie  had  given  her.  She  wiped 
her  hands  on  her  apron  in  an  instinctive  preparation  for 
receiving  it. 

Sarah  said :     "  Done  your  hat,  Emmie  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Emmie  put  it  on  at  once  and  Sarah  approved,  which 
pleased  Emmie. 

"  Get  yourself  a  cup,  Sarah,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins. 

Sarah  took  off  her  hat  and  coat,  took  a  cake  from  the 
table  and  bit  a  lump  off  it.  When  she  had  got  herself 
a  cup  she  took  out  some  money  and  handed  Mrs.  Bollins 
eight  shillings. 

"  Got  to  buy  a  pair  o'  boots  this  week,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Bollins  said  nothing.  Under  the  circumstances 
she  was  satisfied,  for  she  knew  Sarah  had  not  had  a 
very  good  week. 

When  they  had  all  eaten  a  cake  and  drunk  tea,  which 
was  their  usual  Saturday  dinner,  they  attacked  domestic 
duties.  Sarah  made  the  beds  and  swept  and  dusted  the 
bedrooms,  Mrs.  Bollins  washed  some  clothes  in  the 
scullery,  and  Emmie  at  once  began  to  sweep  the  kitchen 
and  then  to  clean  it. 

As  she  scrubbed  with  soap  and  brush  she  would  kneel 
upright,  push  back  a  bit  of  hair  and  tell  her  mother  some 


24  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

of  the  gossip  from  the  hat  works.  And  Sarah  would 
run  downstairs  with: 

"Eh!  What  d'you  think?  That  Susan  White's  go- 
ing to  marry  Arthur  Chandler  on  Monday.  They're 
going  to  Buxton.  When  they  come  back  they're  going 
to  live  in  Nelly  Street,  you  know,  one  o'  them  houses 
that  back  on  th'  field.  She's  got  a  new  dark  blue  tailor- 
made  costume  for  goin'  away  in.  Alice  Meggs  is  goin' 
to  th'  weddin'.  They  say  they're  goin'  to  Marple  after, 
an'  havin'  a  big  tea  there." 

"  I  suppose  Mester  White'll  pay  for  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Bollins. 

Emmie  looked  as  if  she  were  picturing  the  scene.  The 
wedding  .  .  .  the  bride  particularly.  .  .  . 

She  dashed  her  mop  in  the  bucket. 

"Well,  she  can  have  him  for  all  I  care  —  and  wel- 
come," she  said. 

"  Me  too,"  said  Sarah.  "  She's  been  walkin'  out  with 
him  for  six  years,  an'  she  says  she's  lucky  —  well,  that's 
what  Mary  Jecks  told  me." 

"Lucky.  ...  I  think  if  I'd  had  him  I  should  have 
thought  myself  lucky  if  some'dy  had  run  away  with  him," 
said  Emmie,  with  a  laugh,  as  she  slapped  the  dripping 
cloth  on  the  floor. 

"  Me  too,"  said  Sarah,  as  she  went  upstairs  again. 

Then  Emmie,  as  she  mopped,  sang  to  herself : 

"White  wings  they  never  grow  weary, 
They  carry  me  cheerily  over  the  foam.  .  .  ." 

As  she  worked,  she  threw  her  mind  into  the  business. 
If  she  saw  a  particularly  dirty  spot  she  would  say  to 
herself:  "That's  dirty  .  .  .  wonder  how  it  got  like 
that  ?  "  and  she  would  scrub  till  it  was  as  clean  and  re- 
proachless  as  the  rest.  She  got  through  the  work 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  25 

quickly.  She  seemed  to  know  exactly  what  to  do  when 
she  got  up,  so  that  she  wasted  no  time  in  putting  pieces 
of  furniture  into  inconvenient  places  or  in  wondering 
whether  she  ought  to  do  under  the  window  now  or  by 
the  fireplace.  .  .  . 

Her  mother  always  realised  that  Emmie  was  a  good 
worker. 

After  having  mopped  the  kitchen  floor,  Emmie  took 
out  some  brown  stone  and  cleaned  the  door  step  and 
window  sill,  browning  them  evenly  with  her  floor- 
cloth. 

"  That's  done,  Mother,"  she  said,  as  she  poured  away 
the  dirty  water,  wrung  out  the  floorcloth  and  threw  it 
under  the  slop  stone.  "  Let  me  wash  my  hands,  will 
you?" 

"  Coin'  to  mix  them  cakes  now  ?  "  Mrs.  Bollins  said. 

"Yes.     Haven't  you  finished  that  washing?" 

"  Nearly." 

When  Emmie  had  mixed  the  potato  cakes  she  looked 
at  the  little  round  clock  on  the  mantelshelf  —  the  larger 
one  on  the  wall  never  went. 

"  Five  minutes  to  four."  .  .  .  Emmie  took  the  two 
chairs  off  the  sofa  —  she  had  placed  them  there  while 
she  had  scrubbed  the  floor  —  put  down  the  mat  at  the 
door,  tidied  the  place  and  then  looked  round  as  if  for 
fresh  domestic  worlds  to  conquer. 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  do  anything  else,  do  you, 
Mother  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Bollins  hesitated.  She  had  just  finished  her 
washing. 

"  No-o.     Have  you  done  them  cakes  ?  " 

"  Yes.     They're  ready  to  go  in  th'  oven." 

"  No.  There's  nothin'  else,  then.  Sarah  can  set  th' 
table." 


26  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Emmie  went  upstairs,  where  she  found  Sarah  looking 
at  her  dress. 

"  Guessed  as  much,"  said  Emmie.  "  You  an'  work'll 
never  fall  out,"  and  she  picked  up  her  best  boots,  which 
were  under  the  bed,  preparatory  to  cleaning  them. 

Sarah  did  not  seem  to  mind  reproaches  on  that  head. 

"  Goin'  to  Ashton  to-night,"  she  said. 

"Who  with?" 

"  Polly  Bell." 

"  Goin'  by  yourselves  ?  " 

"  We're  goin'  to  meet  two  chaps  there." 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  Take  care  o'  yourself." 

"  Go  on  wi'  you!  As  if  we  couldn't.  .  .  .  My  chap's 
a  jolly  nice  fellow;  he's  at  Guide  Bridge  Station;  don't 
know  what  —  clerk,  I  suppose " 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  go  downstairs  an'  set  t'  table 
an'  finish  your  work  first?  " 

"  What  are  you  botherin'  about  ?  .  .  .  I  thought  o' 
putting  in  a  bit  o'  blue  in  these  squares  .  .  .  what  d'you 
think?" 

"  No,"  said  Emmie  quickly;  "  it  'ud  make  it  too  showy 
—  look  like  a  gipsy's.  You  keep  it  as  it  is ;  it  was  a  good 
dress  and  looks  good;  don't  spoil  it." 

"  H'm.  .  .  ."  Sarah  sighed,  put  the  dress  on  the  bed 
and  went  downstairs. 

Mrs.  Bollins  was  reading  the  local  paper,  but  as  she 
heard  Sarah  coming  downstairs  she  hastily  placed  it  on 
the  sofa  and  was  looking  anxiously  at  the  oven  when 
Sarah  entered  the  room. 

"  You,  is  it?  "  she  said  quietly,  as  if  tired.  "  Emmie's 
made  some  potato  cakes.  .  .  .  Your  father  likes  'em. 
...  I  wonder  if  this  oven'll  be  hot  enough?  " 

"  I'll  lay  table,  Mother,  for  tea,  'cause  I  want  to  get 
dressed." 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  27 

"  All  right ;  I'll  just  sit  me  down  a  bit." 

"  Have  you  finished  ?  " 

"Finished?  .  .  .  Me?  .  .  .  My  work's  never  done." 

Sarah  began  to  hum: 

"Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by,  Jenny, 
Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by. 
Jenny,  my  own  true  loved  one, 
Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Bollins  felt  that  now  she  really  could  have  a  look 
at  the  paper  again.  And  yet  she  was  not  able  to  read 
without  disturbance,  for  when  Emmie  and  Sarah  up- 
stairs were  dressing  themselves  Mr.  Bollins  came  in,  and 
Mrs.  Bollins,  with  a  conscientious  desire  to  keep  up  the 
role  of  the  tireless  or  tired,  but  certainly  ceaseless,  worker 
in  the  house,  threw  down  the  paper  instantly,  got  up  and 
at  once  began  to  look  as  if  she  were  absorbed  in  that 
unending  chain  of  work  which  claimed  her  from  morn- 
ing to  night.  Not  that  she  was  an  idle  woman;  but  she 
liked  the  reputation  and  sympathy  that  seemed  to  attach 
to  the  incessant  worker  and  cherished  the  idea  that  her 
good  name,  if  she  were  once  caught  reading  a  newspaper 
in  the  daytime,  would  go. 

"  Tea  ready?  "  asked  Mr.  Bollins. 

"  It  will  be  soon.     I'll  put  these  potato  cakes  in  now." 

When  the  tea  was  ready,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bollins  sat 
down  to  it  with  their  two  daughters,  who  were  wearing 
large  white  aprons  to  protect  their  best  frocks.  Mr. 
Bollins  described  how  he  had  nearly  beaten  Tom  Sales, 
who  was  one  of  the  best  bowlers  in  Canton. 

"  Eh!  If  Ah'd  only  'ad  mi  chance,"  he  said,  shaking 
his  head,  "  Ah'd  ha'  bin  one  o'  t'  best  bowlers  in  Eng- 
land. ...  Ah  would  that  ...  if  Ah'd  only  'ad  mi 
chance." 


28 


Mr.  Bollins  was  great  on  this  lack  of  chance  from 
which  he  suffered.  He  had  an  idea  he  might  have 
achieved  great  things  if  he'd  had  what  he  called  a 
chance.  .  .  . 

During  the  course  of  the  tea  Emmie  remarked  that 
some  man  had  got  on  and  made  a  fortune.  Mr.  Bollins 
shook  his  head.  "  Ay.  .  .  .  When  Ah  were  twenty- 
one  Ah  'ad  an  idea.  ...  If  only  Ah'd  'ad  mi  chance 
Ah'd  ha'  made  a  big  fortune  ...  a  big  'un  ...  if 
Ah'd  only  'ad  mi  chance.  .  .  ." 

As  they  sat  at  the  table  Mr.  Bollins  was  without  his 
coat,  and  Mrs.  Bollins  had  not  yet  washed  herself. 
She  was  always  washing  her  hands,  she  said,  and  when 
she  washed  herself  in  the  afternoon  she  was  supposed 
to  have  reached  a  certain  stage  in  domestic  arrangements 
that  justified  the  proceeding.  But  each  Saturday,  when 
tea  was  ready,  she  would  murmur  with  the  little  self- 
deception  that  was  now  part  and  substance  of  her  being : 
"  I  don't  think  I'll  wash  before  tea  ...  I'll  wait  till 
after,"  and  one  of  the  girls  generally  said:  "Yes, 
Mother.  Sit  down  and  rest." 

After  tea  Mr.  Bollins  filled  his  pipe,  sat  at  the  open 
door  and  read  the  local  paper.  Mrs.  Bollins  then  washed 
herself  before  going  out  to  do  the  marketing.  Some- 
times she  washed  the  pots,  but  generally  left  them  till 
the  next  day,  when  the  girls  were  at  home  and  able  to 
lend  a  hand  in  the  domestic  work. 

Alice  Cannel  called  for  Emmie,  and  when  they  set 
out  for  Belle  Vue,  Mrs.  Bollins  stood  at  the  door  watch- 
ing them  go.  She  was  very  proud  of  her  daughter,  who 
was  certainly  a  remarkably  handsome  girl,  and  dressed 
very  well. 

"They  might  just  as  well  enjoy -themselves  when 
they're  young,"  she  murmured.  The  phrase  seemed  to 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  29 

be  a  little  reminiscent  of  her  own  youth,  blended  with 
her  added  experience  since. 

Neighbours  watched  the  two  girls  go. 

"  There's  Emmie  Bollins  and  Alice  Cannel.  .  .  .  Em- 
mie's got  a  new  hat  on  —  a  black  'un,  trimmed  with 
red;  it  goes  with  her  dress.  She  fancies  herself,  but 
she's  a  good-looking  lass.  .  .  .  Off  gallivantin'  some- 
where. .  .  ." 

Emmie  and  Alice  walked  down  Silton  Street,  out  of 
the  sight  of  relatives  and  neighbours. 


CHAPTER  II 

"T    ET'S  walk  to  the  Wilton,"  said  Emmie. 

•*-'  "  We  can  walk  all  the  way  if  we  don't  catch  a 
train,"  said  Alice. 

In  the  year  1885  a  horse  tram  ran  every  half  hour 
from  Ganton  to  Manchester,  passing  on  its  way  the 
famous  Zoological  Gardens  known  familiarly  as  "  Belle 
Vue"  (pronounced  Belle  View}.  Belle  Vue,  situated 
about  midway  between  Ganton  and  Piccadilly  (Man- 
chester), is  an  astonishing  place.  The  collection  of  ani- 
mals is  extraordinarily  varied  and  interesting,  but  there 
is  also  a  kind  of  Luna  Park  or  Coney  Island  as  part  of 
the  attraction,  as  well  as  a  great  dancing  hall.  And  from 
Whitsuntide  till  the  5th  of  November  there  are  fire- 
works; not  ordinary  fireworks,  not  yet  extraordinary 
fireworks,  but  something  one  would  not  guess  from  the 
word  fireworks  —  a  realistic  representation  of  a  battle, 
in  which  scores  (perhaps  hundreds)  of  men  take  part, 
cannons  roar  and  blaze,  turrets  and  towers,  bastions  and 
forts  are  shattered  and  fall  and  all  culminates  in  a  burst 
of  brilliant  and  dazzling  fireworks. 

It  was  to  Belle  Vue  that  Emmie  and  Alice  were  going, 
as  were  a  great  many  other  people  from  places  situated 
on  all  sides  of  Manchester. 

It  was  clearly  Saturday  afternoon  or  evening,  for  so 
many  best  clothes  were  to  be  seen.  Men  and  women  on 
the  road  to  Manchester  or  Enjoyment  somewhere,  had 
donned  their  best  clothes  and  felt  far  different  beings 
than  they  did  on  Saturday  morning.  And  the  dresses 
were  not  simple  working  girls'  dresses,  but  things  of 

30 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  31 

taste  and  style  and  quality.  The  trimmer  who  earned 
good  wages  indulged  the  great  attractive  instinct  of  her 
sex :  she  spent  freely  —  almost  lavishly  —  on  dress. 

Along  Manchester  Road  there  was  a  thin  stream  of 
these  "  best  dressed  "  folk.  It  was  not  a  thick  stream ; 
there  was  nothing  torrential  about  it;  but  any  one  com- 
ing from  Manchester  towards  Canton  would  have  no- 
ticed the  solitary  clean,  Sunday-clothed  man,  ditto  girl, 
then  couple,  then  man,  then  girl,  and  so  on.  ...  It  was 
Ganton  at  play  on  Saturday  night.  A  similar  stream 
went  towards  Hyde  and  another  towards  Ashton,  though 
Manchester,  with  Belle  Vue  as  its  allurement,  was  the 
most  popular.  Obviously  Ganton  was  not  able  to  hold 
the  enterprising  Gantonians  in  their  hours  of  ease. 

As  a  matter  of  plain  fact,  Emmie  and  Alice  walked 
all  the  way  to  Belle  Vue  because  the  tram  did  not  over- 
take them  at  an  economical  stopping  place.  One  may 
spend,  but  one  must  not  waste,  and  there  were  no  penny 
fares  in  1885. 

They  invaded  "  Belle  Vue  "  at  the  lake  entrance,  and 
at  once  took  possession  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  place. 
Till  then  they  had  talked  of  all  sorts  of  things,  of  dress, 
of  people,  of  hat  shops  and  things  seen  by  the  road,  a 
plain,  unlovely  road,  particularly  after  crossing  the  canal, 
which  was  a  little  beyond  the  Ganton  boundary.  The 
factory  chimney  of  Lancashire  casts  an  enormous 
shadow. 

On  the  lake  in  the  gardens  of  Belle  Vue  there  were 
boats  plying,  and  a  steamer  was  paddling  round  for 
those  who  did  not  care  to  venture  in  the  small  craft. 

Emmie's  eyes  brightened  at  the  sight.  There  was 
youth  at  the  helm  and  pleasure  at  the  prow;  it  was  a 
scene  of  jollity  and  gladness.  If  a  youth  caught  a  crab 
there  were  general  rejoicings  all  round,  including  gra- 


32  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

tuitous  advice  and  comment  —  all  of  a  wild  superfluity 
in  the  crab  catcher's  opinion. 

The  picture  struck  both  Emmie  and  Alice.  They 
gazed  with  lips  slightly  parted  in  token  of  latent  eager- 
ness. The  scene  harmonised  with  their  feelings. 

"  Shall  we  go  on?"  said  Alice. 

"  Let's  wait  a  bit,"  said  Emmie. 

Two  youths  in  a  small  boat  gave  them  a  cordial  invi- 
tation. 

"  We  haven't  come  here  to  drown  ourselves,"  said 
Alice. 

"  You'll  not  drown.  .  .  .  Ah'll  hold  you." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  the  chance?  " 

"  Come  on.  .  .  ." 

"  Go  and  wash  yourselves,"  said  Emmie,  and  she  and 
Alice,  in  a  bubbling  humour  of  high  spirits,  laughed  and 
walked  on. 

It  was  a  pleasant  summer  evening  and  the  lake  had  its 
full  toll  of  pleasure  seekers.  There  were  a  number  of 
people  strolling  about  watching  those  on  the  water,  and 
small  queues  waiting  for  small  boats  and  for  places  on 
the  steamers,  that  created  washes  which  allured  the  dar- 
ing and  made  the  timorous  scream. 

"  I'd  like  to  have  a  peep  at  t'  lions,"  said  Alice. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Emmie,  "  before  it  gets  too  dark." 

"Yes.     We've  not  too  much  time." 

They  hurried  on  past  the  lake,  missing,  even  in  their 
quickness,  no  respectable  and  attractive  young  man  who 
was  within  a  fair  comprehending  circle.  One  or  two 
nods  were  unambiguous  and  a  "  Mother  doesn't  want  you 
so  soon,  does  she?  "  brought  a  quick  look  of  haughtiness 
which  was  immediately  smothered  in  laughter. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Emmie,  dragging  Alice,  "  they're 
after  us." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  33 

Alice  was  dragged  unwillingly.  If  males  were  after 
them  it  was  worth  while  walking  slow.  .  .  .  You  could 
always  tell  'em  to  sling  their  hook.  .  .  . 

But  Emmie  always  seemed  as  if  she  could  treat  homage 
with  a  prodigal's  disdain. 

"  What  did  you  want  to  run  for?  "  said  Alice. 

"  They  were  up  to  nowt,"  said  Emmie. 

In  the  building  which  housed  the  lions  and  tigers,  the 
girls,  at  first,  were  interested,  but  soon  they  looked  at 
each  other  as  if  moved  by  a  common  thought. 

Emmie  pulled  a  face. 

"Whiffey,  isn't  it?" 

"  Just  what  I  was  thinkin',"  said  Alice,  as  she,  too, 
pulled  a  face.  "  It  does  stink,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

They  laughed,  put  their  handkerchiefs  to  their  noses, 
and  went  out  into  the  fresh  air. 

Egged  on  by  similar  motives,  they  quietly  made  a  bee- 
line  for  the  dancing-room.  Both  of  them  looked  more 
eager,  more  lively,  as  they  caught  sight  of  moving 
couples  and  heard  the  strains  of  the  music. 

The  ballroom  at  Belle  Vue  is  a  huge  place,  with  enor- 
mous and  gorgeous  pictures  painted  on  its  walls  portray- 
ing some  of  the  stirring  and  emotional  incidents  in  his- 
tory and  mythology,  as  well  as  views  of  gorgeous 
landscape  and  seascape.  An  orchestra,  pitched  on  a  high 
platform  out  of  the  way  of  the  dancers,  played  the  se- 
ductive music.  It  was  a  public  dancing  place,  and 
if  visitors  wished  to  dance  the  opportunity  was  given 
them. 

Clearly  there  were  a  great  number  of  people  of  both 
sexes,  who  were  prepared  for  the  luck  of  the  casual  en- 
counter. And  the  pretty  girls  were  certainly  not  likely 
to  be  overlooked. 

Emmie  and  Alice  had  no  sooner  set  foot  in  the  ball- 


34  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

room  than  glances  were  shot  towards  them  from  right 
and  left. 

"  Pooh !  You  may  look,"  said  Alice,  with  withering 
scorn,  in  a  whisper  to  Emmie,  referring  to  the  wholesale 
ogling  she  was  being  subjected  to  (or  fancied  she  was) 
on  the  part  of  a  youth  with  a  high  stiff  collar  and  his 
hat  on  one  side. 

"Who  is —  Oh!  him!  .  .  ."  Emmie  turned  away 
too.  Rich  people  can  be  proud ;  people  with  famous  an- 
cestors can  assume  a  haughty  demeanour,  but  for  wither- 
ing contempt  there  is  no  one  to  beat  the  young  pretty 
girl  to  the  audacious  male. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Emmie  to  Alice,  as  she  slid  an  arm 
round  her,  and  they  joined  in  the  polka  that  was  then 
being  danced. 

Of  course  the  two  girls  enjoyed  dancing  for  its  own 
sake.  But  not  wholly.  Even  as  Emmie  and  Alice 
danced  they  knew  they  were  doing  two  things:  they 
were  allowing  themselves  to  be  seen  and  they  were  show- 
ing those  who  really  wished  to  know  that  they  could 
dance. 

It  would  have  been  a  very  disappointing  evening  if 
they  had  had  to  dance  together  the  whole  time. 

When  the  music  ceased  they  walked  round  the  room 
very  slowly,  standing  still  now  and  again  to  see  who 
was  there. 

Variety  there  certainly  was.  There  was  a  little  party 
from  nice  respectable  homes,  which  had  come  for  the  fire- 
works and  taken  occasion  by  the  neck  to  enjoy  the 
dance.  There  were  great  numbers,  like  Emmie  and 
Alice,  who  came  to  enjoy  themselves  and  took  the  risk 
of  companions.  And  there  were  others.  The  men 
ranged  from  the  bald  and  fat  and  red  nosed  to  the  callow 
youth  who  had  half  a  crown  a  week  to  spend  and  man- 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  35 

aged  to  get  rid  of  it  all  on  a  Saturday  night  at  Belle  Vue. 

Alice  and  Emmie  saw  themselves  making  the  attrac- 
tion they  deserved  and  hoped  for.  They  began  picking 
and  choosing  mentally.  They  proceeded  by  a  process  of 
attrition.  "Pooh!  that  chap."  And  the  head  was 
thrown  up  with  a  little  jerk  and  the  eye  roved  elsewhere. 
They  were  quite  ready  to  hold  out  the  golden  sceptre, 
only  they  did  want  the  grasper  to  be  reasonably  attrac- 
tive. Besides,  they  were  always  willing  to  try.  A  man 
might  be  very  nice  as  a  dancer  .  .  .  and  vice  versa. 

Suddenly  Alice  said :     "  There's  Mr.  Tim." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Emmie  quickly. 

"  There." 

Emmie  turned  and  saw  her  master's  only  son  stand- 
ing in  the  ballroom,  much  better  dressed  than  he  was  at 
the  works,  looking  with  a  pleasant  eye  on  the  pleasure- 
makers  about  him. 

For  a  moment  they  were  both  silent  —  Alice  and  Em- 
mie, that  is. 

Mr.  Tim  did  not  appear  to  have  seen  them;  he  was 
talking  to  a  friend. 

Emmie  instinctively  began  to  straighten  herself  and 
look  as  if  she  were  quite  a  superior  being. 

She  caught  Mr.  Tim's  eye,  and  he  gave  her  a  smile 
and  a  nod. 

His  friend  looked  and  said  something,  and  Emmie 
could  feel  Mr.  Tim  saying:  "One  of  our  trim- 
mers. .  .  ."  She  didn't  mind.  She  was  a  trimmer  .  .  . 
there  was  no  shame  in  working  for  your  living. 

The  band  struck  up. 

Alice  said:     "  A  waltz.  .  .  .  Shall  we?" 

"  No,"  said  Emmie  quickly.  "  Get  a  chap,"  she  added, 
with  a  laugh. 

In  an  instant  a  young  man  was  bowing  to  Alice. 


36  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"May  I  have  the  pleasure,  Miss?"  Alice  looked  —  it 
had  to  be  done  speedily  to  see  if  he  was  all  right.  Yes, 
he  wasn't  bad.  She  leaned  forward  in  an  act  of  sweet 
surrender,  and  went  waltzing  round  the  room  with  min- 
gled feelings  —  joy  in  the  dance  and  curiosity  in  her 
partner,  translated  into  the  blunt  question  which  was 
in  her  mind :  "  What  sort  of  a  chap  have  I  got  hold 
of?" 

Emmie  was  also  accosted.  A  young  gentleman,  friend 
of  Alice's  partner,  bowed  before  her  and  hoped  he  might 
have  the  pleasure  .  .  .  but  Emime  shook  her  head. 
"  No,  thanks,"  she  said. 

"  What !  "  he  said.  "  Not  dancing?  Oh !  Yes,  your 
friend  is." 

"  No,  thanks." 

"Oh!  Go  on.  Don't  be  shy.  .  .  .  Shall  we  sit  it 
out  somewhere  ?  " 

"  You  can  sit  where  you  like,"  said  Emmie,  "  so  long 
as  it  isn't  near  me." 

"That's  it,  is  it?     Haughty!" 

"  Well,  you  asked  for  it.     Move  on !  " 

He  pulled  a  face,  but  he  moved  on. 

Emmie  was  a  little  surprised  at  herself.  She  was  not 
usually  irritable  or  sharp  with  the  young  men  who  came 
to  ask  her  to  dance.  Even  if  she  refused  their  invita- 
tions, she  did  it  with  the  attitude  of  one  who  might  still 
be  a  sister  to  them.  But  she  did  feel  just  a  little  ex- 
cited. ...  It  was  Mr.  Tim,  of  course. 

She  had  seen  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people  at 
Belle  Vue;  some  people  who  wouldn't  like  their  names 
mentioned  at  any  rate,  and  some  quite  as  well  off  as,  if 
not  better,  than  Mr.  Tim.  And  yet.  .  .  .  When  he  had 
smiled  at  her  and  given  her  that  little  nod,  he  had  done 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  37 

so  with  an  air  or  something  that  told  Emmie  there  was 
more  in  it  than  in  the  mere  salutation. 

At  least  she  wasn't  going  to  dance  —  for  a  bit.  She 
was  going  to  wait  and  see.  She  had  vague  ideas  run- 
ning in  her  pretty  head,  but  one,  at  least,  was  clear: 
if  Mr.  Tim  was  going  to  be  taken  with  her  and  asked 
her  to  dance,  she  wasn't  going  to  say  No.  .  .  .  No 
fear.  .  .  . 

She  pretended  to  be  watching  the  dancers,  but  every 
now  and  then  those  piercing  eyes  of  hers  looked  from 
under  lashes  and  brows  towards  Mr.  Tim. 

He  was  coming. 

"  What  a  bit  o'  luck  I  didn't  dance  with  that  chump 
as  asked  me  just  now,"  Emmie  said  to  herself. 

She  moved  a  little  shyly,  but  kept  up  a  beautiful  suc- 
cession of  glances  on  Mr.  Tim  as  he  came  towards  her. 

"  He's  going  to  ask  me,"  she  was  saying  to  herself. 
"  And  wouldn't  they  stare  in  that  trimming-room  if  they 
could  see!  Mr.  Tim  coming  to  me.  .  .  .  He's  here, 
right  enough.  .  .  ." 

All  this  while  Emmie  was  a  picture  of  beauty  and  in- 
nocence. She  looked  as  if  she  had  no  thought  but  of 
the  dance,  and  yet  was  really  too  shy  to  join  in  it,  or  was 
it  too  dignified  or  too  prudent?  .  .  . 

Timothy  Booke  was  clearly  struck  with  her. 

He,  too,  had  a  true  Ganton  spirit,  and  was  not  to  be 
caught  out  first  ball  through  a  blind  swipe.  He  had  the 
canniness  of  his  race,  if  he  had  certain  other  qualities 
as  well.  After  all,  he  was,  in  a  sense,  this  girl's  employer. 
"  T.  Booke  &  Son "  was  his  father's,  and  would  ulti- 
mately be  his,  to  pass  on  in  the  course  of  time,  if  things 
went  well,  to  his  son.  And  this  young  woman  was  a 
trimmer  in  their  factory.  And  a  very  pretty  young 


38  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

woman,  too.  .  .  .  You  could  go  a  long  way  without  find- 
ing a  prettier.  Timothy  Booke  had  been  looking  at  the 
girls  in  that  ballroom,  and  not  one  of  them,  in  his  opin- 
ion, was  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  Emmie  Bollins.  He  had 
always  thought  she  was  a  pretty  wench,  but  in  these 
clothes,  in  that  red  dress  and  gloves  and  hat.  .  .  . 

He  nodded  and  smiled,  but  did  not  take  off  his  hat. 
Emmie  did  not  expect  it.  She  smiled  readily. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  kind  of 
bantering  tone,  not  wanting  any  really  definite  answer. 

"  Same  as  most  folk,"  said  Emmie  quickly. 

He  gave  a  little  snort.     "  You  look  smart,"  he  said. 

"  Do  I?  "  She  was  pleased  he  noticed  it,  a  little  ruf- 
fled he  mentioned  it. 

"  Yes." 

"  So  do  you." 

He  laughed. 

"  Do  you  dance  ?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Why  didn't  you  dance  with  that  chap  as  asked  you 
just  now?" 

"  Didn't  want  to." 

"H'm.  .  .  .  Well,  would  you  like  one?" 

"  Wouldn't  mind.  .  .  ." 

"  Come  on,  then,"  and  he  put  his  arm  round  her  and 
they  went  dancing  round  to  the  tune  of  the  Blue  Danube 
waltz. 

Emmie  felt  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy.  It  was  the  triumph 
that  thrilled  her.  She  had  caught  the  look  in  Mr.  Tim's 
eyes  which  blazoned  admiration,  and  Emmie  knew  that 
face  of  hers  had  made  its  impression. 

Dancing  with  Mr.  Tim.  ...  If  only  the  other  trim- 
meTs  could  see  her  now !  Mr.  Timothy  Booke  had  come 
up  to  her  and  asked  her  to  dance  with  him.  .  .  . 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  39 

She  hoped  to  goodness  Alice  could  see  her. 

Emmie  danced  well.     So  did  Mr.  Tim. 

"  Do  you  often  come  here?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  very  often.  .  .  .  Do  you?" 

He  smiled.  There  was  a  hint  of  mischievousness  in 
the  question. 

"  Now  and  then,"  he  said,  and  as  he  looked  at  her,  he 
was  quite  pleased  to  be  dancing  with  her.  She  was  cer- 
tainly dressed  very  well  and  tastefully.  Nobody  need 
be  ashamed  of  being  seen  with  her.  And  she  was  as 
pretty  a  girl  as  there  was  in  that  room.  That  black  hair 
of  hers  and  those  dark  eyebrows  went  well  with  that  red 
dress  of  hers,  trimmed  with  black.  A  well-made  girl, 
too.  As  he  held  her  with  his  arm,  he  felt  she  was  both 
solid  and  supple ;  neither  putty  nor  wood,  as  he  had  once 
vaguely  described  the  girl  who  did  not  displease  him. 

Emmie  knew  quite  well  what  he  was  thinking,  and 
allowed  herself  to  be  drawn  a  little  closer.  She  knew 
the  value  of  her  sex.  He  began  to  hold  her  more  tightly. 
She  said  to  herself,  "That's  all  right."  Behind  it  all 
there  was  the  confidence  she  had  that  she  was  not  going 
to  be  made  a  fool  of. 

"  You  dance  well,"  he  said. 

"Do  I?" 

"  Yes." 

"  So  do  you." 

He  was  pleased. 

'  You've  done  a  bit  o'  dancin',  or  you  wouldn't  do 
it  so  well." 

"A  bit,"  she  said;  "  I'm  not  always  dancin'." 

She  was  enjoying  herself  very  much,  and  liked  this 
conversation  on  equal  terms.  In  the  factory  things  were 
not  quite  the  same;  but  here  in  a  ballroom  beauty  could 
raise  the  lowly  to  the  level  of  the  -mighty.  And  Emmie 


40  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

knew  it.  She  felt  the  admiration  of  Mr.  Tim  as  cer- 
tainly as  she  heard  the  music.  She  knew  it  was  not  a 
mere  casual  invitation  to  a  waltz,  but  a  liking  for  her. 
As  his  looks  lingered  on  her  face,  on  her  figure,  she 
glanced  at  him  in  that  semi-timid,  but  always  attractive, 
style  of  hers,  and  then  lowered  her  lashes.  It  looked  like 
the  beautiful  surrender  which  the  male  likes.  But  Em- 
mie was  very  pleased  at  his  examination,  for  she  was 
saying  to  herself :  "  Go  on.  I  don't  mind.  The  more 
you  look,  the  more  you'll  want  to." 

Then  the  music  stopped. 

Emmie  was  not  quite  sure  what  she  ought  to  do,  and 
so  pushed  back  one  or  two  hairs  that  were  trying  to  get 
out  of  place,  and  one  or  two  that  needed  no  attention. 
She  was  flushed  with  the  excitement  and  the  dance. 

The  other  couples  were  now  walking  to  the  seats  round 
the  room  or  standing  in  little  groups. 

Tim  Booke  hesitated.  He  had  not  yet  made  up  his 
mind  what  to  do.  He  had  come  to  Belle  Vue  for  a  little 
idle  pleasure,  and  found  a  pleasure  that  was  rather  keener 
than  he  had  anticipated. 

Emmie  thought,  "  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  move  off  if 
he  isn't,"  and  she  sincerely  hoped  if  there  were  any  Gan- 
ton  people  in  the  room,  who  had  not  had  the  satisfaction 
of  noticing  her  dancing  with  Mr.  Timothy  Booke, 
Junior,  that  they  at  least  might  see  her  talking  to  him 
now. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  drink  or  not,"  he  said. 

"  No,  thanks.     I'm  teetotal." 

"  Oh !  Glad  to  hear  it ;  I  don't  believe  in  women  who 
drink.  Well,  I  enjoyed  that  dance." 

"  Very  nice,"  muttered  Emmie,  very  pleased. 

"  I  had  a  friend  when  I  came  .here."  He  looked  round. 
"  I  must  find  him."  • 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN    .  41 

"  He's  going,"  said  Emmie  to  herself. 

"  I've  got  somebody  with  me,"  she  said.  A  certain 
instinct  —  very  common  amongst  Gantonians  —  made 
her  hoist  her  own  flag  of  independence. 

"Well,  er.  .  .  .  I'll,  er.  .  .  .  We'll  have  another 
dance,  eh,  Emmie,  in  a  bit  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  she  said,  trying  to  be  calm  and  not  too 
joyful,  though  she  was  bubbling  with  a  triumphant  sat- 
isfaction. 

He  smiled  and  walked  away. 

Emmie  watched  him  go  and  felt  supremely  happy. 
What  had  happened  harmonised  with  the  proper  fitness 
of  things.  She  had  not  dreamt  exactly  of  a  prince,  but 
she  had  had  ideas,  that  with  a  little  stretching,  might 
get  into  that  category.  She  turned  round  and  caught 
sight  of  herself  in  a  mirror.  The  view  pleased  her.  If 
j£  came  to  looks  she  could  beat  him  any  day.  She  tilted 
her  head  a  little  and  threw  her  rounded  chin  into  prom- 
inence .  .  .  stretched  herself,  and  was  glad  that  her  fig- 
ure was  good.  Also  that  she  was  well  dressed.  No  man 
need  be  ashamed  of  being  with  her. 

"  Here  you  are,"  said  Alice  Cannel.  "  Well  ...  I 
saw  you  with  Mr.  Tim,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  very  glad  that  she  had  not  had 
to  mention  the  matter  first,  for  that  would  have  looked 
like  boasting. 

"Has  he  gone?" 

"  Only  to  his  friend." 

"Is  he  comin'  back?" 

"  Yes."  Emmie  said  it  carelessly,  as  if  it  were  a  casual 
and  very  natural  thing;  nothing  to  get  excited  about 

"  Oh !  "  Alice  wondered  for  a  minute  if  Mr.  Tim 
would  have  asked  her  if  she  hadn't  gone  with  the  other 
man.  "  Mine  was  all  right,"  she  said  quickly.  "  He 


42  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

danced  beautifully;  bit  of  a  masher,  but  he  isn't  a  com- 
mon chap;  he  asked  me  if  I'd  have  a  glass  of  port,  but 
I  said  No,  thanks.  It  was  a  lovely  tune,  wasn't  it? 
Urn  ti.  .  .  ."  And  Alice  hummed  it.  "What's  up?" 
she  asked. 

"Nothing.     Why?" 

"  You're  so  quiet.  Is  it  because  you've  been  dancm* 
with  Mr.  Tim?" 

"  Pooh!  As  if  I  bothered  my  head  about  that.  Let's 
walk  about  a  bit.  A  lot  o'  folks  here  to-night,  isn't 
there?" 

"Urn.  .  .  ." 

When  the  next  dance  was  played  a  gentleman,  who 
had  evidently  been  watching  his  opportunity,  dashed  to- 
wards Emmie  and  made  the  usual  request.  But  she  de- 
clined ;  she  wasn't  dancing  —  at  least  not  this  time, 
thanks. 

Alice,  attacked  during  Emmie's  proposal  with  one  for 
herself,  gave  in  at  once. 

Emmie  did  not  feel  at  all  neglected.  She  wondered 
what  had  come  over  her  to  make  her  refuse,  once  she  had 
started,  for  she  did  love  dancing.  Where  was  Mr.  Tim  ? 
Was  he  dancing  with  anybody?  She  looked  about. 

No,  he  was  not.  He  was  talking  to  some  one.  That 
was  his  friend.  .  .  .  She  watched  him.  Suddenly  he 
looked  in  her  direction  and  smiled  pleasantly.  She 
turned  round,  feeling  quite  happy,  and  refused  three 
more  tempting  offers  of  partners  for  the  dance  in  prog- 
ress. 


CHAPTER  III 

1Y/TR.  TIMOTHY  BOOKE,  JUNIOR,  was  pleasant- 
•••*-»•  faced,  light-complexioned,  about  twenty-six  years 
of  age.  He  had  obstinacy  in  his  jaw  and  could  be  relied 
on.  He  was  not  original  or  sparklingly  audacious,  but 
he  could  stick  and  had  a  good  dose  of  plain  common 
sense.  He  liked  pleasure  and  never  funked  work,  was 
not  given  to  excesses  and  impressed  women  as  a  gentle 
kind  of  man,  one  to  be  trusted  and  not  to  be  feared. 
He  had  calm  blue  eyes,  a  straight  nose,  a  light  moustache 
over  a  mouth  rather  big  for  his  face  —  good-tempered, 
you  would  say  at  once. 

He  was  dressed  in  cleanliness,  clean  boots  and  a  well- 
fitting,  good  dark  brown  suit.  He  carried  nothing  of 
the  dirt  of  the  works  with  him  when  he  went  out  on 
Saturday  evening. 

Twenty-six.  ...  It  was  really  time  he  was  married. 
His  father  occasionally  mentioned  it  in  a  curt  way,  and 
his  relatives,  particularly  his  aunts  —  suggested  it  fre- 
quently and  with  uncommendable  locution. 

But  he  went  his  own  way.  Nobody  —  no  lady,  that 
is  —  had  appealed  to  him  yet  in  such  a  way  as  to  per- 
suade him  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife.  He  worked  fairly 
hard  during  the  daytime,  and  in  the  evenings  there  was 
the  club  —  what  chance  had  he,  really,  of  being  thrown 
with  those  who  might  allure  him  with  the  fascinations 
of  sex?  An  occasional  dance,  occasional  meetings.  .  .  . 

He  had  met  many  pleasant  young  ladies  on  his  short 
summer  holidays  to  Blackpool,  the  Isle  of  Man  and  Llan- 
dudno,  and  amused  himself  with  them.  Yet  he  was  sin- 
gle and  unattached. 

43 


44  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

He  had  come  to  "  Belle  Vue  "  merely  to  pass  an  agree- 
able evening,  and  not  expected  to  meet  one  of  his  own  — 
say,  his  father's  —  trimmers  there.  And  now  that  he 
had  seen  Emmie  Bollins  in  that  room  and  danced  with 
her,  he  felt  a  great  desire  to  look  at  her  frequently,  to 
watch  her,  observe  her.  .  .  . 

He  had,  of  course,  always  known  that  she  was  pretty, 
but  he  had  never  been  struck  with  her  appearance  as  he 
was  now.  She  was  beautiful ;  the  belle  of  the  place. 

Even  as  he  sought  his  friend,  he  did  so  with  a  tingling 
sensation  of  pleasure.  He  could  imagine  his  arm  still 
round  Emmie's  waist,  her  body  close  to  his,  her  face, 
with  the  black  hair  above,  the  dark  eyes,  that  finely  curved 
line  of  the  jaw  from  ear  to  ear,  turned  towards  his.  .  .  . 

Mechanically,  he  turned  to  look  at  her  again. 

James  Short,  Tim's  friend,  was  a  younger  man,  from 
Manchester. 

"  That's  a  pretty  girl  you  had,  Tim." 

"  Yes." 

"  She  is  that.     Did  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  Yes.     She's  one  of  our  trimmers." 

"One  of  your.  .  .  .  By  Gum!  I  wouldn't  mind  hav- 
ing a  half  day  in  your  trimming-room  if  that's  the  sort 
of  trimmers  you  have." 

"  They're  not  all  like  her." 

"  I  picked  up  a  nice  little  bit." 

"Oh.  ..." 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do?  Look  after  your  little 
trimmer  ?  " 

"  Might.     I  shall  have  another  dance  with  her." 

"  Well,  look  here.  I'll  hitch  on  to  that  one  I  was  with ; 
suppose  we  get  separated " 

"  Don't  you  bother  about  me,"  said  Tim  quickly. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  45 

"You  don't  mind?" 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  Might  suit  you,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  I  dunno.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  see  you  to-morrow,  as  arranged." 

"  Yes." 

And  when  Tim  had  parted  with  his  friend,  he  looked 
for  Emmie.  The  other  girls  did  not  attract  him.  He 
looked  about  him  and  kept  saying :  "  Well,  Emmie 
could  give  that  'un  a  start  an'  beat  her  in  a  canter.  .  .  . 
And  that.  .  .  .  And  that.  .  .  .  And  —  oh ! " 

He  did  not  betray  too  much  emotion  in  his  face,  but  a 
close  watcher  might  have  noticed  the  satisfactory  some- 
thing that  stirred  him  and  kept  him  well  at  pleasure's 
height. 

There  was  a  certain  amount  of  prudence  in  his  dispo- 
sition, and  he  seemed  to  feel  as  if  something  held  him 
back  a  little  and  cried  "  Not  too  fast,  now." 

The  view  commended  itself  to  him;  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  gained  by  rushing  matters,  and  probably  noth- 
ing would  be  lost  by  a  little  care  and  caution  and  wait- 
ing. 

He  watched  the  couples  dancing;  they  interested  him 
in  their  variety.  But  he  kept  casting  glances  in  the  di- 
rection where  he  had  last  seen  Emmie,  and  caught  her 
eye  twice.  She,  too,  was  looking.  "  What's  the  good  o' 
this  ?  "  he  said  to  himself,  and  walked  towards  her  —  not 
hurriedly,  but  as  one  who  knows  what  he  wants  and  sees 
no  reason  why  he  should  not  seek  to  realise  it. 

Emmie  had  noticed  Mr.  Tim's  glances  with  a  fiercely 
beating  heart.  One  look  was  curiosity,  but  two  and 
three  and  four  looks  lifted  the  gaze  into  the  dominion 
of  interest.  And  if  you  really  get  interested  in  a  pretty 


46  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

woman  and  want  to  watch  her,  the  degree  of  interest  can 
be  screwed  up  and  up  and  up. 

"  He's  coming,"  said  Emmie  to  herself. 

She  was  ready,  neither  attempting  a  welcome  nor  a 
surprise.  She  just  greeted  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Not  got  off  yet?  "  he  said,  almost  banteringly. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders;  his  was  banter  with  a 
scratch. 

"  My  own  fault,  at  any  rate,"  she  retorted  quickly. 

"  You  like  dancing  ?  " 

"  I  needn't  dance  if  I  don't  want  to,"  she  said. 

"  Oh!     Come  on.     You're  wasting  time." 

She  laughed  as  he  put  his  arm  round  her  and  started 
to  dance  with  her. 

"  The  music'll  stop  in  a  minute,"  she  said. 

"  Never  mind;  a  bit's  better  than  nothing,"  and  he  felt 
a  high  quality  of  pleasure  as  he  held  her  and  moved  with 
her.  She  was  a  most  delectable  body.  He  held  her  tight 
—  a  little  tighter  than  was  necessary. 

"  Now,  then,"  she  said,  protestingly,  but  with  a  note 
that  she  could  take  care  of  herself  —  and  would  do  so. 

"  You  don't  want  to  be  held  like  a  dozen  hats,  do  you  ?  " 
he  said,  with  a  pretence  of  justification. 

She  laughed.  She  did  not  mind,  only  you  had  to  tell 
some  of  these  men  if  there  was  a  danger  of  them  going 
too  far.  Besides,  she  wasn't  going  to  stand  any  non- 
sense, even  from  Mr.  Tim. 

The  band  stopped. 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"And  we've  only  just  started." 

"  Well,  you  should  have  come  before,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  have  the  next  waltz  with  you." 

"  All  right." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  47 

He  was  just  going  to  ask  her  to  have  a  little  stroll  and 
get  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  when  Alice  Cannel  came  up. 

"  Hello !  "  said  Mr.  Tim.     "  You  here  too  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Enjoying  yourself  too,  I'll  bet." 

"  Not  bad,"  said  Alice,  flushed  and  proclaiming  her 
enjoyment  flagrantly,  pleasure's  flags  on  her  cheeks. 

"That's  right.  Well,  I'll  see  you  again,"  he  said  to 
Emmie,  and  turned  away. 

Emmie  was  delighted  at  this  "  I'll  see  you  again."  It 
gave  her  such  a  nice  intimacy  with  Mr.  Tim  before  Alice. 

"See  you  again,  eh?"  said  Alice.  "Is  he  going  to 
have  another  dance  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  with  a  superb  note  of  ease  and 
casualness,  as  if  she  danced  with  Mr.  Tim  and  his  kind 
whenever  she  wanted  and  thought  nothing  much  of  it, 
really. 

"  Oh-h.     Mashed  Mr.  Tim,  eh." 

"Be  quiet!" 

Alice  was  light-hearted. 

"  Oh,  well.  This  chap  was  a  chump !  Silly  old  beg- 
gar, talking  about  *  his  people  ' !  They  keep  three  serv- 
ants. Liar!  Shouldn't  be  surprised  if  his  mother  takes 
in  washin'."  They  laughed.  "  But  he  could  dance. 
That  first  chap  I  had  was  nicer,  only  there  was  a  dark 
fellow  looking  at  me  all  the  time  I  was  dancin' !  I  won- 
der where  he  is  ?  "  .  .  .  Alice  turned  round.  .  .  . 

Emmie  was  silent.  She  had  nothing  to  say.  Mr. 
Tim's  attitude  was  impressive,  even  in  its  ease  and  ap- 
parent off-handedness.  He  would  have  stayed  with  her, 
so  Emmie  said  to  herself,  if  Alice  hadn't  come  up.  Still, 
she  wasn't  going  to  leave  Alice;  she  couldn't  do  that. 
And  besides,  he  was  coming  back  again. 


48  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

He  did  come  back,  and  they  danced  together.  There 
was  no  feeling  of  disappointment  or  disillusionment  or 
surfeit  with  either;  both  were  content. 

Emmie  breathed  heavily,  and  her  bosom  rose  and  fell. 

He  looked  at  her  admiringly. 

"  Come  on  outside  a  bit ;  it's  so  stuffy  in  here." 

"  No."     She  Ipoked  at  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

He  laughed. 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of  ?  I  only  want  to  smoke  a 
cigarette.  We  can  walk  round  the  building,  and  you'll 
be  back  before  you  can  say  Jack  Robinson." 

"  All  right,"  she  said.  "  But  where's  Alice  ?  I  mustn't 
lose  her." 

"  You  don'J:  want  to  be  carrying  her  about  with  you. 
I  only  want  a  mouthful  of  fresh  air  and  a  smoke.  Be- 
sides, she's  all  right;  look  at  her." 

Alice  was  talking  with  radiant  vivacity  to  a  man,  who 
seemed  very  pleased  to  be  in  her  company. 

"  Wait  till  I  tell  her,"  said  Emmie,  and  she  at  once 
went  to  Alice  and  informed  her  she  was  just  going  out 
for  a  minute  with  Mr.  Tim  —  only  going  for  a  bit  of 
fresh  air  —  she'd  be  back  in  a  moment  and  would  come 
there. 

"  All  right,"  said  Alice,  rather  markedly,  and  with  a 
noticeable  improvement  in  her  usual  pronunciation,  as  if 
she  wished  to  let  the  gentleman  with  her  hear  how  beau- 
tifully she  spoke  to  her  friend.  This  kind  of  thing  was 
not  common  with  Alice,  but  perhaps  the  gentleman  had 
given  her  a  lead ;  he  had  the  air  of  one  owning  castles  in 
Spain  on  Saturday  night  and  turning  his  sleeves  up  on 
Monday. 

Outside,  Mr.  Tim  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  This"  is  better,"  he  said,  and  as  they  walked  Emmie 
was  just  a  trifle  nervous.  She  had  the  feeling  of  aware- 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  49 

ness,  readiness  and  anticipation  that  a  young,  pretty,  well- 
developed  young  lady  of  twenty-one  almost  instinctively 
summons  when  she  is  alone  with  a  young  man  she  has 
not  often  seen  before  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  after  a 
dance  at  Belle  Vue,  and  there  are  not  too  many  people 
about  and  the  lights  are  dim,  and  she  has  had  hammered 
into  her  head  the  stern  ideas  that  she  must  not  get  into 
mischief,  or  make  a  fool  of  herself  or  do  anything  of 
that  kind,  and  knows  a  bit  about  the  world  and  its  ways. 
A  mood  quickly  dispelled  by  something  assuring. 

As  Mr.  Tim  walked  by  her  side  she  felt  that  he  had 
something  on  his  mind.  He  did  not  talk  brilliantly  or 
with  a  dazzling  wit,  but  he  was  pleasant  and  easy.  Only 
he  occasionally  stopped  in  his  talk  to  look  at  her.  She 
saw  and  felt  those  glances  as  he  took  in  her  face  and 
figure.  He  took  her  arm  once  and  squeezed  it. 

"  You're  not  starved,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  not  fat,  either,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  Just  right,"  he  said,  and  he  held  on  to  the  arm. 

He'd  like  to  kiss  me,  Emmie  said  to  herself.  Shall 
I  let  him?  .  .  .  She  thought  she  would  tell  him  to  stop 
it  if  he  tried  that  game,  and  see  what  sort  of  a  man  he 
was.  She  was  sensuous  enough  to  like  to  be  mastered 
by  the  male,  and  really  hoped  he  would  take  no  notice 
of  her  protestations  if  he  just  tried  to  kiss  her. 

But  whatever  stirred  him,  and  Emmie  was  quite  right 
in  her  conjectures  as  to  his  desires,  he  did  nothing.  Per- 
haps he  was  shy ;  perhaps,  too,  he  felt  he  had  too  big  an 
advantage  as  master  towards  employee,  though  Emmie 
was  not  lacking  in  independence  and  could  take  care  of 
herself. 

So  he  was  just  agreeable.  It  was  a  calm,  balmy  eve- 
ning, and  the  sound  of  a  jackal  howling  and  the  roar  of 
an  annoyed  lion  came  to  them.  There  were  a  great  many 


50  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

couples  about,  most  of  them  arm  in  arm,  or  the  man  with 
his  arm  round  the  lady's  waist. 

Just  before  they  reached  the  ballroom,  Mr.  Tim  said: 
"  Going  away  this  wakes?  " 

"  Yes ;  going  to  Blackpool." 

"  Blackpool,  eh?  ...  Suppose  you'll  go  to  the  tower." 

"  I  expect  so." 

He  paused. 

"  I  reckon  you'll  have  a  good  time  there." 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  said  quickly. 

He  paused  again. 

"  Well,  Blackpool's  all  right  for  a  holiday ;  not  many 
places  can  beat  it,  considering  everything." 

They  danced  together  again,  and  Alice  came  up  after- 
wards and  chatted  pleasantly.  Mr.  Tim  said: 

"  I'll  have  a  walk  round.  I  suppose  you're  staying  for 
the  fireworks  ?  " 

"Oh!    Yes,"  said  Emmie. 

"  I  .  .  er  .  .  ."  he  smiled  and  nodded  and  went  away, 
breaking  off  his  speech  as  if  prudence  or  caution  tugged 
him. 

When  he  was  alone  outside  in  the  fresh  air,  he  felt 
like  a  man  being  drawn  in  a  certain  direction,  while  try- 
ing to  stay  where  he  was.  He  wanted  to  look  round  to 
examine  more,  as  a  climber  looks  for  the  sure  foothold 
and  reckons  up  the  chances,  being  allured  all  the  time 
by  the  glory  of  the  view.  Desire  and  something  in  his 
mind  seemed  to  be  having  a  tussle. 

He  could  not  keep  altogether  away  from  that  ballroom, 
and  when  he  put  his  foot  inside  it  his  eyes  shot  here  and 
there  till  they  discovered  Emmie  Bollins. 

"  Funny,"  he  said  aloud  to  himself,  when  he  discov- 
ered what  he  was  doing. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  51 

And  when  the  fireworks  took  place,  he  went  to  Emmie 
and  Alice  and  said,  "  Come  on,"  as  if  he  knew  what  he 
wanted.  He  piloted  them  to  seats,  for  which  he  paid. 
The  brilliancy  of  the  fireworks,  the  realism  of  the  battle 
scene,  the  booming  cannon,  the  blazing  fortresses,  the 
men  flung  from  battlements,  the  charge  of  the  victorious 
soldiers,  the  triumphant  music  were  all  wonderful  in  their 
way,  but  to  both  Timothy  and  Emmie  they  were  a  sec- 
ondary affair. 

When  Emmie  reached  home  she  found  her  father 
was  slightly  inebriated,  and  her  mother  looking  very 
tired. 

Mr.  Bollins  nodded  and  muttered  something  scarcely 
worth  the  catching,  and  closed  his  eyes  again. 

"  Got  back  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Bollins  wearily. 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie  brightly;  "  Susan  in?  " 

"  Yes.  She's  gone  to  bed.  There's  some  bread  an' 
cheese  an'  a  tomato,  if  you  want  it." 

Emmie  picked  up  a  piece  of  bread  and  cheese. 

"  I'll  just  have  a  bite,"  she  said.  "  Been  to  Belle  Vue 
—  the  fireworks  are  lovely,  Mother." 

"  Belle  Vue,  eh.  ...  Alice  come  home  with  you?  " 

;<  Yes.  I  suppose  you're  going  to  bed  now,  aren't  you  ? 
I'll  light  the  fire  in  the  morning." 

"  All  right.     I  shall  be  goin'  in  a  minute." 

"  I'm  off,"  said  Emmie. 

Susan  was  asleep.  Emmie  looked  at  herself  in  the 
glass.  She  had  her  hat  on,  and  was  still  proud  of  it. 
She  was  proud  of  her  appearance  altogether.  She  took 
her  hat  off,  held  it  out  at  arm's  length  and  admired  it 
again.  She  shook  it,  then  looked  at  herself  without  it. 
She  examined  herself  full  face,  three  quarters  and  profile. 
She  rearranged  her  hair  a  little  and  put  her  fringe  quite 


52  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

straight ;  then  she  put  on  her  hat.  She  could  apparently 
find  no  flaw. 

When  she  was  in  her  nightdress  and  had  brushed  her 
thick  black  hair  and  it  hung  loosely  on  her  shoulders,  she 
looked  at  herself  again. 

What  had  he  said  ?     "  You're  not  starved.  .  .  ." 

Starved  .  .  .  she  smiled  at  the  irony  of  the  word. 
She  was  not  of  the  "  fat "  type,  but  starved.  .  .  .  No ! 
.  .  .  She  saw  her  breasts,  not  too  big,  and  nicely  rounded, 
holding  out  her  nightdress;  she  pulled  up  a  sleeve  and 
looked  at  her  shapely  arm.  .  .  . 

She  stood  still,  seeing  nothing  in  particular,  and  think- 
ing nothing  coherent,  but  feeling  thrilled  with  a  kind  of 
perfect  satisfaction  and  fiercely  happy  anticipation.  It 
was  something  to  be  good-looking  and  well-made. 

"  Come  on  into  bed,"  muttered  Susan,  turning  over. 
"What  d'you  want  lookin'  at  yourself  for  like  that? 
What's  up?" 

"  Thought  you  were  asleep,"  said  Emmie,  beginning 
to  coil  up  her  hair.  "  Enjoy  yourself?  " 

"Yes.     Did  you?" 

"  Er  .  .  .  all  right,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Been  with  a  fellow  ?  " 

"  Er.  .  .  .  Been  with  Alice  Cannel." 

"  Oh !  .  .  .  Um  .  .  ."  with  some  expression.  "  I 
know.  Come  on  to  bed." 

Emmie  turned  out  the  light  and  got  into  bed  beside 
her  sister. 

Mr.  Tim  let  himself  in.  He  went  in  the  dining-room, 
turned  up  the  gas,  and  saw  the  supper  neatly  laid  out 
for  him  by  the  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Bane. 

He  sat  in  front  of  it,  but  did  not  eat. 

His  thoughts  of  Emmie  Bollins  stifled  the  desires  of 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  53 

his  stomach.  He  looked  serious  and  somewhat  restless, 
moved  by  big  emotions.  He  got  up,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
sat  down  in  a  big,  cosy  easy  chair.  .  .  . 

He  sat  very  quiet  till  the  cigarette  was  finished,  and 
then  he  heard  a  key  turn  in  the  lock,  and  his  father  came 
in. 

"  Hello !  .  .  .  Not  had  your  supper  yet  ?  "  Mr.  Booke 
spoke  cheerily,  and  one  could  tell  from  the  tone  that  the 
father  had  affection  for  his  son. 

"  No,"  said  Tim. 

"  Better  get  it,  hadn't  you?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Tim,  adding  after  a  pause,  "  Just  been  fin- 
ishing my  cigarette,"  a  lame  and  unnecessary  remark  that 
was  thrust  out  of  him  because  he  had  been  unusually 
stirred,  and  felt  desirous  in  some  way  of  covering  up 
the  matter. 

Mr.  Booke,  senior,  was  smoking  a  cigar,  and  the  per- 
fume pervaded  the  room  powerfully,  something  like  Tim- 
othy Booke's  personality.  He  noted  the  lack  of  eager- 
ness in  his  son's  attitude. 

"Not  hungry?" 

"  No,"  replied  Tim  carelessly. 

"  Been  enjoyin'  yourself  ?  " 

"  A  bit." 

"  Eat,  lad ;  it'll  do  you  good.     I'm  off  to  bed.     'Night." 

"  'Night,  Father." 

But  Tim  ate  very  little. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Sunday  evenings  the  members  of  the  Booke  family 
used  to  meet  at  each  others'  houses  in  turn. 

Timothy  Booke,  senior,  was  the  only  son,  but  he  had 
three  sisters,  two  of  them  married :  Jane  to  a  Mr.  Holten, 
a  hat  manufacturer,  Sophie  to  Mr.  Grass,  an  engineer. 
Maria  was  the  unmarried  one. 

The  family  had  been  established  in  Canton  for  a  num- 
ber of  years,  for  Timothy's  grandfather  had  founded  the 
business  which  still  flourished  as  "  T.  Booke  &  Son." 
The  Bookes,  either  in  consequence  of  the  old  establish- 
ment of  the  family  as  hat  manufacturers,  or  on  account 
of  a  simple  gift  of  nature,  invariably  considered  them- 
selves as  people  of  importance.  It  was  not  only  unwise 
for  anybody  who  sought  peace  and  pleasantness  to  pass 
over  the  Bookes  in  any  public  arrangements,  such  as  the 
forming  of  committees  for  bazaars,  sales  of  work,  the 
management  of  nursing  homes,  et  cetera  —  it  was  not 
only  unwise,  it  was  dangerous.  The  Bookes  had  tongues. 
Also  a  spirit  that  was  equal  to  any  crisis,  and  a  discom- 
forting capacity  for  a  certain  level  of  sarcasm.  It  may 
naturally  be  concluded  that  the  Bookes  held  their  heads 
high,  insisted  on  a  certain  measure  of  respect,  and  were 
not  universally  loved. 

Mrs.  Holten  was  the  ablest;  a  most  capable  manager, 
knowing  her  worth  even  to  the  point  of  appraising  it 
above  the  general  opinion.  She  could  manage  almost 
anything  —  particularly  with  that  tongue  of  hers.  And 
one  had  to  concede  her  ability. 

Mrs.  Grass  was  the  least  pushing,  the  least  bellicose 
and  the  happiest.  She  could  take  care  of  herself  if  she 

54 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  55 

were  thrust  into  a  melee  or  a  duel,  for  that  matter,  but 
she  avoided  the  disagreeable  if  possible. 

Miss  Booke  was,  perhaps,  the  bitterest  of  the  three. 
They  had  all  tempers  (though  Mrs.  Grass's  was  quickly 
spent),  but  Miss  Booke  could  hold  on  for  years.  "  Speak 
first.  .  .  .  Never ! "  That  was  her  attitude.  She  used 
to  live  with  her  brother  after  his  wife  died,  but  two  such 
stubborn  souls  as  Timothy  and  Maria  Booke  were  too  in- 
flammable to  live  together.  The  difference  arose,  the 
dispute  was  born,  the  row  supervened  and  the  sulk  entered 
upon  the  scene. 

The  position  was  intolerable,  since  Maria  was  keeping 
home  for  Timothy.  Mrs.  Holten  and  Mrs.  Grass  inter- 
vened, and  Maria  decided  to  live  in  a  little  house  by  her- 
self. 

"  I'm  going,"  she  said  curtly  to  Timothy,  and  her  lips 
snapped  together  after  the  breaking  of  the  terrible  ice 
of  silence. 

Timothy,  who  could  preserve  an  air  of  taking  things 
easily,  said,  without  emotion,  after  nodding  his  head: 
"  I  think  it's  best,  Maria." 

"  Yes."     The  mouth  snapped  like  a  hard  door  banging. 

"Yes."  His  was  longer.  "Where  are  you  going?  " 
He  was  her  brother,  after  all. 

"  I  shall  take  a  house  and  live  by  myself." 

"  Oh !  .  .  .  Um.  ...  A  very  good  plan,  too.  Well, 
you  needn't  hurry,  you  know." 

So  peace  was  made,  but  Timothy  then  got  in  a  working 
housekeeper,  a  Mrs.  Bane,  who  had  a  woman  to  help 
her;  and  Miss  Booke  installed  herself  in  her  little  house 
on  Manchester  Road  where  she  could  see  people  pass- 
ing, and  found  life  interesting. 

On  the  Sunday  following  Timothy  junior's  visit  to 
Belle  Vue  the  Bookes  foregathered  at  the  brother's.  The 


56  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

sisters  met  at  church  and  came  on  after  the  service. 
They  were  all  well  and  fairly  expensively  dressed,  and 
eyed  each  other's  clothes  with  the  natural  criticism  and 
curiosity  of  women  as  they  walked  from  the  church  to 
their  brother's  house. 

"  I  like  that  dolman,  Maria." 

"  Yes.  I  always  fancied  it.  They  say  bustles  are  get- 
ting less.  .  .  ." 

"  I  hear  Mrs.  Ginn  has  got  a  new  sealskin  coat,  three 
quarter  length ;  some  one  said  her  husband  had  paid  fifty 
pounds  for  it.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh-h.  .  .  .  Fifty  pounds.  .  .  .  Anne  will  fancy  her- 
self, won't  she?  " 

"Is  it  true  that  Mr.  O' Kelly  is  engaged  to  Miss  Ec- 
cles  ?  "  Mr.  O'Kelly  was  the  curate. 

"  I've  heard  nothing." 

"  I  don't  think  so,  Maria." 

"  Well,  it  was  Miss  Sokes  told  me.  She  said  she'd  seen 
them  together  a  lot." 

"  That  woman's  always  seeing  things.  .  .  .  Miss  Ec- 
cles  is  a  nice  girl  .  .  .  will  have  a  bit  o'  money,  too.  The 
Reverend  Joe,  perhaps,  knows  what  he's  after." 

"  Trust  him  for  that !  " 

"  You  know,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  it's  time  Tim  began 
to  think  of  settling  down." 

"  I  wish  he'd  find  a  nice  wife,"  said  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  I  know  the  girl  that  would  just  suit  him,"  said  Miss 
Booke. 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Holten  quickly.  "Ellen 
Quillan?" 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  They  had  talked  of  Ellen 
Quillan  before,  in  this  connection. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  57 

"  Y-yes,"  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "  She's  a  nice  girl  .  .  . 
a  very  nice  girl." 

"  And  well  off  —  and  a  lady,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

"  Does  Tim  care  for  her  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Grass. 

Miss  Booke  sniffed  quickly. 

"  I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't." 

"  There's  this  to  be  said :  Timothy  would  like  it,"  added 
Mrs.  Holten. 

"  I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Booke,  who  had 
set  her  heart  on  this  match,  and  pressed  it  to  the  point 
of  tactlessness,  as  is  frequently  the  way  with  match- 
makers. 

"  Have  you  heard  about  William  Seddon's  son  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Grass. 

"  What  about  him  —  you  mean  his  eldest  —  the  one 
that  travels?" 

"  Yes.     He's  married  a  barmaid." 

"Eh.  T't,  ft."  Both  Jane  and  Maria  shook  their 
heads.  There  were  more  clicks  of  the  tongue,  "  T't  .  .  . 
ft  ...  ft.  .  .  ." 

"  These  young  chaps  ...  a  barmaid.  What  does  his 
father  say  ?  " 

"  He's  very  upset,  I  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  Upset,  indeed.  ...  A  barmaid.  I  hope  to  goodness 
Tim  won't  do  a  thing  like  that.  Thank  Heaven!  he 
doesn't  go  much  to  public-houses,  according  to  all  ac- 
counts. If  Tim  married  a  barmaid  or  anybody  like  that, 
I  should  .  .  .  er,  I  don't  know  .  .  .  feel  that  ashamed 
I'd  never  want  to  speak  to  him  again." 

"  And  wouldn't  people  talk,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  They  would  that,"  said  Miss  Booke.  "  And  some  of 
them  wouldn't  mind  if  Timothy  Booke's  son  did  make  a 
fool  of  himself." 


58  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  I  never  think  it  matters  much,"  said  Mrs.  Grass,  "  if 
they're  nice." 

"  I  shouldn't  call  a  barmaid  nice,"  snapped  Miss  Booke. 

"  She  might  be,  Maria,"  said  Mrs.  Grass.  "  Wasn't 
—  isn't  that  a  fine  show  of  roses  that  Timothy's  got?  " 

They  were  just  now  in  full  view  of  their  brother's 
house  —  to  them,  the  home  of  the  Booke  family. 

Helston  House  stood  by  itself,  in  about  half  an  acre 
of  ground.  The  garden  was  well  kept,  about  one-half 
being  taken  up  by  a  lawn  with  a  flower  bed  round  it  and 
the  other  half,  separated  by  a  neatly  trimmed  privet  hedge, 
being  devoted  to  the  service  of  the  kitchen.  The  house 
was  plain  and  unpretentious,  but  it  had  served  plain  and 
unpretentious  people  in  the  past  and  was  solid  on  its 
foundations,  and  comfortably  and  substantially  furnished. 
It  stood  at  the  corner  of  Silton  Street  and  Davy  Street, 
about  a  dozen  or  fifteen  yards  on  high  ground  from  the 
sidewalk. 

As  one  faced  it,  the  garden  lay  to  the  left  of  the  house, 
the  lawn  abutted  onto  the  street,  being  firmly  divided 
from  it  by  a  wall  and  a  stout  iron  railing.  Behind  were 
the  works.  There  was  an  entrance,  really  the  main  en- 
trance for  it  was  the  most  imposing,  to  the  house  in 
Silton  Street,  but  one  could  also  enter  by  a  door  in  Davy 
Street,  or  at  the  back.  The  three  sisters  went  in  by  the 
principal  door. 

Mrs.  Bane,  the  housekeeper,  opened  the  door.  She 
was  always  disturbed  with  mixed  feelings  on  the  Sunday 
Mr.  Timothy  entertained  his  sisters,  for  she  knew  very 
well  she  had  three  —  for  a  surety,  two  —  keen-eyed,  keen- 
tongued  women  in  the  house,  who  would  notice  at  once 
any  falling  off  from  a  high  standard  of  domestic  ability,  ' 
point  it  out  and  criticise  freely  and  frankly.  The  mixed 
feelings  came  from  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Bane  had  a  nervous 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  59 

dread  of  two  of  the  Booke  ladies,  and  yet  a  certain  pride 
and  confidence  in  her  abilities,  which  prompted  her  to  feel 
that  they  could  look  as  much  as  they  liked,  for  they'd 
find  nothing  to  criticise. 

She  was  always  scrupulously  neat  and  tidy  in  her  per- 
sonal appearance  on  these  occasions. 

As  she  opened  the  door,  which  caught  on  the  mat,  she 
said,  "  G'evening,  Mrs.  Holten,  'evening,  Miss  Booke, 
'evening,  Mrs.  Grass." 

The  ladies  nodded  and  said  "  Good  evening,"  Mrs. 
Grass  the  most  cordially. 

"  That  door  catches,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

"  Yes,  it  does  a  bit,"  replied  Mrs.  Bane,  feeling  as  if 
she  were  being  pricked  already. 

"  A  bit.  .  .  .  It'll  wear  that  mat  out  if  it  isn't  attended 
to,"  said  Maria  pontifically. 

"  Does  Mr.  Booke  know  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bane,  boiling  by  this  time. 

Mrs.  Grass  said  pleasantly :  "  Have  you  made  your 
jam  yet,  Mrs.  Bane?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Grass.  I've  done  some  black  currant  and 
strawberry." 

"  You  must  let  us  taste  it,"  said  Mrs.  Holten  quickly. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bane,  but  she  added  to  herself : 
"  Wants  to  see  if  she  can  say  if  it's  too  sweet  or  not  sweet 
enough."  "  Mr.  Booke  is  in  the  dining-room,"  she  said, 
throwing  open  the  door,  which  was  the  first  one  they 
reached. 

The  ladies  entered  majestically. 

Mr.  Booke  was  smoking,  and  did  not  rise  as  his  sisters 
entered. 

"  Ha.  .  .  .  You've  come,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  and  she  looked  round  as  Mrs. 
Grass  and  Miss  Booke  followed  her  into  the  room. 


60  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"Well,  Timothy,  how  are  you?"  said  Mrs.  Grass. 

"I'm  all  right.     Where's  Fred?" 

"  He's  gone  with  Tom  for  a  walk."  (Tom  was  Mr. 
Holten. )  "I  thought  they  might  have  got  here  before 
us." 

"  Well,"  he  paused;  "  won't  you  sit  down?  " 

They  settled  down  after  critical  glances  round  the 
room.  Mrs.  Grass  dropped  into  an  easy  chair  opposite 
her  brother  and  smiled.  Mrs.  Holten  sat  at  the  table 
like  a  chairwoman  with  the  minutes  before  her.  Miss 
Booke  went  to  the  window. 

There  were  three  oil  paintings  on  the  walls,  represent- 
ing three  generations  of  Bookes.  It  must  be  admitted 
they  looked  sturdy  men  of  purpose.  The  portrait  of  the 
grandfather  of  Timothy  had  been  painted  from  a  small 
daguerreotype,  the  others  had  been  done  from  life  (with 
the  aid  of  photographers)  by  an  artist  whom  Mr.  Booke 
knew.  They  were  just  plain  portraits,  the  character  in 
the  faces  making  them  interesting.  There  was  a  broad, 
solid  mahogany  buffet  or  sideboard  facing  the  window, 
with  a  silver  tray  set  upright,  a  tantalus  and  a  handsome 
silver  epergne  on  mats.  There  was  a  mirror  over  the 
mantelpiece,  on  which  was  a  marble  clock,  a  pair  of  silver 
candlesticks  and  two  Delph  ware  ornaments.  The  chairs 
and  couch  were  mahogany,  with  horsehair  seats  —  solid 
and  sound.  There  was  a  Turkey  carpet  on  the  floor  and 
a  Persian  rug  by  the  fireplace.  The  paper  was  flowered 
but  not  offensive. 

"  I  always  envy  you  this  carpet,  Timothy,"  said  Mrs. 
Holten,  tapping  her  foot  on  it. 

He  said  nothing. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Mrs.  Grass.  "  Fred  says  he'll  get  a 
Turkey  when  our's  is  worn  out;  how  much  did  you  give 
for  this,  Timothy?" 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  61 

"  Twenty  pound." 

"  Twenty  pounds.  .  .  .  It's  a  lot  of  money,  isn't  it?  — 
for  a  carpet." 

"  It's  worth  it,"  said  Mrs.  Holten  quickly.  "  They  last 
a  lifetime,  and  they  —  you  do  feel  so  comfortable  with 
them.  And  they're  no  worse  for  cleaning  than  others." 

"  Not  if  you  look  after  them,"  said  Miss  Booke. 
"  You  know  these  curtains,  Timothy,  should  be  mended 
before  they  go  to  the  wash  again,  or  they'll  be  torn  to 
shreds.  They  were  good  curtains,  too.  ...  I  suppose 
Mrs.  Bane'll  see  to  them  ? " 

Timothy  went  on  smoking. 

"  We  were  talking  about  Tim  as  we  came  along  —  is 
he  in?" 

"  I  don't  know.     He  will  be  soon." 

"Oh!     I  hope  he  will  be." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Grass.     "  I  hope  he'll  come  in." 

"  Isn't  it  time  he  got  engaged  ?  "  Mrs.  Holten  asked. 

"  Ask  me  another,"  replied  Timothy. 

"  Well,  you're  his  father." 

"  H'm.     I've  allus  been  reckoned  that." 

"  You'd  like  to  see  him  engaged,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Likin's  one  thing.  .  .  ."     He  nodded. 

"  Have  you  heard  about  William  Seddon's  son  ?  " 

"What  about  him?" 

"  He's  going  to  marry  a  barmaid,"  said  Mrs.  Grass. 

"Oh-h.  .  .  ." 

"  You  wouldn't  like  Tim  to  marry  a  barmaid,  I  im- 
agine," said  Maria  Booke. 

"  Your  imagination's  right,  for  once,  Maria." 

"  Well,  with  these  girls  in  bars.  .  .  ."  She  shook  her 
head.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  but  it  would  be  a  com- 
fort if  Tim  were  properly  engaged  to  a  nice  girl." 

"  Suppose  he  went  and  made  a  fool  of  himself." 


62  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason  to  suppose  anything  of  the 
kind,"  said  Mr.  Booke. 

"  No.     Let  us  hope  not,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  The  Seddons  will  feel  it,  won't  they  ?  "  said  Miss 
Booke,  almost  in  the  tone  of  one  hoping  they  would, 
though  she  may  not  have  hoped  it.  "  I  feel  very  anxious 
about  Tim  sometimes.  With  these  young  men.  .  .  . 
You  never  know.  .  .  .  You  never  know/' 

"  He  can  get  married  any  day  he  likes  as  far  as  I'm 
concerned,"  said  Timothy.  "  The  day  he  marries  I  walk 
out  of  here;  this'll  be  his  —  and  the  works.  He  can  live 
here  and  carry  on  the  business  like  I  did.  I've  enough 
money  for  what  I  want  and  I  can  do  with  a  bit  more 
time  for  bowling  or  watching  a  bit  o'  cricket  and  foot- 
ball. .  .  .  I've  told  him.  So  he  knows." 

"  Timothy !  That's  very  generous,"  said  Mrs.  Grass. 
"  Give  it  all  up  to  Tim  when  he  marries  ?  .  .  ." 

"  And  where  would  you  go  and  live  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Holten. 

"  Somewhere.     I'd  soon  find  a  place." 

"  Er  .  .  ."  said  Miss  Booke.  "  Suppose  Tim  were 
to.  .  .  ."  She  shook  her  head.  "  You  know,  Timothy, 
Ellen  Quillan's  just  the  girl  for  Tim  —  she's  just  the  wife 
for  him.  She'd  manage  this  house  beautifully." 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  not.  I  shan't  interfere.  I 
don't  interfere  in  affairs  of  that  kind." 

"  Suppose  he  goes  and  marries  a  barmaid?  " 

Timothy  hesitated.  His  mouth  was  shut  tight,  and 
he  opened  it  with  a  little  snap  before  he  spoke. 

"  That'll  be  his  lookout,"  he  said. 

"  Ours,  too,"  said  Miss  Booke  quickly. 

"  Yes.     His  father's,  too,"  added  Mrs.  Holten. 

Then  they  were  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Hol- 
ten and  Mr.  Grass,  who  were  both  wearing  frock  coats 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  63 

and  white  waistcoats.  There  was  quite  a  stir  in  the  room 
as  they  made  a  "  general  post "  for  chairs,  and  soon 
afterwards  Tim  came  in,  also  wearing  a  frock  coat  and 
light  waistcoat. 

Mrs.  Holten  said :  "  Are  you  going  away  this  wakes, 
Tim?" 

"  I  might,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"Whereto?" 

He  did  not  reply  quickly.  It  was  as  if  he  were  dis- 
inclined to  be  too  much  "  inquired  into." 

"  I'm  not  sure  yet.  If  anywhere,  I  think  it  will  be 
Blackpool." 

"  Blackpool,"  said  Miss  Booke.  "  I  believe  Mrs.  Quil- 
lan  talked  of  going  to  Blackpool.  If  you  see  them,  Tim, 
you  must  look  after  them.  .  .  .  Ellen  Quillan's  a  nice 
girl  .  .  .  and  she'll  have  a  bit  o'  money." 

Tim  smiled. 

"  I  reckon  Mrs.  Quillan  can  manage  without  me,"  he 
said. 


CHAPTER  V 

*  I  VHE  next  day,  Monday,  Emmie  Bollins  put  on  her 
•*•  best  boots,  did  her  hair  very  carefully  and  nearly 
put  on  her  new  hat.  She,  however,  decided  the  old  one 
was  quite  good  enough  for  the  trimming-room.  She  was 
very  keen  on  getting  as  much  work  as  possible  between 
now  and  the  wakes,  because  the  more  hats  she  trimmed 
the  more  money  she  earned,  and  there  were  sundry  items 
of  finery  to  be  bought  as  well  as  the  expenses  for  the  trip 
to  Blackpool  to  be  secured.  She  wondered  about  Black- 
pool. .  .  .  What  had  Mr.  Tim  said?  "  Well,  Blackpool's 
all  right  for  a  holiday.  .  .  ." 

She  was  not  quite  sure  what  it  implied,  but  she  had 
the  woman's  way  of  seeing  something  hidden  under 
words  and  actions  when  her  interest,  and  particularly  her 
emotions,  were  engaged.  He  had  danced  with  her  — 
looked  at  her  —  yes,  he  had  looked  at  her.  .  .  .  And  he 
took  her  to  a  seat  to  watch  the  fireworks.  Well,  she  was 
going  to  Blackpool  in  any  case ! 

To  the  other  trimmers  at  Booke  &  Son's  she  showed 
no  signs  of  the  thoughts  that  disturbed  her.  She  was 
just  a  little  quieter;  it  wouldn't  do,  for  instance,  to  play 
larks  of  any  kind,  or  act  foolishly  or  indulge  in  scream- 
ing laughter  that  occasionally  echoed  in  the  trimming- 
room. 

She  quickly  got  handed  out  half  a  dozen  hats  by  Miss 
Frisby,  and  at  once  got  to  work  on  them. 

Alice  Cannel  said :     "  You're  quiet,  Emmie." 

"  Got  something  to  do  ?  " 

"  Seen  Mr.  Tim  ?  "  Alice  whispered. 

64 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  65 

Emmie  coloured. 

"  No,"  she  said  quickly,  without  raising  her  head. 
"  Silly  fathead!  "  she  called  Alice  — to  herself. 

"  H'm,"  sniffed  Alice,  and  she  went  down  to  Miss 
Frisby  to  get  work. 

About  half  an  hour  later,  when  Alice  and  Emmie  were 
both  working  hard  and  the  needles  clicked  round  every 
table  in  the  trimming-room,  and  one  of  the  women  was 
singing  in  a  pleasant  mezzo  voice, 

"  Swee-eet  Belle  Maho-oone, 
Swee-eet  Belle  Maho-oone." 

Mr.  Tim  came  in.  He  was  in  his  shirtsleeves,  the  white 
cuffs  showing  their  stiffness  midway  between  his  elbow 
and  his  wrist.  He  wore  a  black  apron  tied  round  his 
waist. 

The  singing  stopped.  Some  of  the  trimmers  laughed. 
The  singer  bent  her  head  as  if  she  didn't  like  being  over- 
heard by  Mr.  Tim,  but  secretly  wondered  if  he  knew 
who  had  been  singing,  and  if  he  admired  the  voice. 

"  Mr.  Tim !  "  whispered  Alice  to  Emmie. 

Emmie  blushed  and  her  heart  beat  more  strenuously, 
and  she  looked  up  in  that  furtive  way  of  hers.  She  must 
see  him.  Had  he  come  to  have  a  look  at  her?  .  .  .  Of 
course  he  had.  He  didn't  often  come  to  the  trimming- 
room. 

"  Er,"  he  began,  "  who's  got  any  hats  for  Stockley  & 
Co.?  They're  marked  Wolseley  355." 

The  trimmers  began  to  look  at  the  little  square  pieces 
of  paper  attached  to  their  hats. 

Emmie  had  some.  She  found  a  difficulty  in  speaking 
and  coughed,  looking  at  Mr.  Tim  and  standing  up. 

He  saw  her. 

"You,  eh?" 


66  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Alice  Cannel  bit  her  lip  and  hardly  dared  to  look. 

"  These  are  Stockley  &  Co.,"  said  Emmie  quietly, 
speaking  very  nicely,  but  without  any  pronounced  affecta- 
tion. 

Mr.  Tim  looked  at  the  order  form  and  the  hat,  and 
then  gave  a  glance  at  Emmie  that  seemed  to  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  business  in  hand. 

"  They're  not  lined,  I  see,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Well,  they're  wanted  quick ;  have  to  go  away  to- 
day." 

"  I've  only  just  got  them." 

"How  many?" 

"  Six." 

"  H'm."  He  looked  at  her  again,  as  if  he  would  put 
something  more  besides  business  into  the  interview,  but 
it  was  of  the  most  shadowy  character.  Emmie  felt  it, 
though  probably  none  of  the  others  save  Alice  noticed  it. 

He  pointed  to  Alice :  "  Suppose  you  take  three  apiece 
—  that'll  be  better,  eh?  They  must  be  done,  and  the 
Midland  lurry'll  be  here  by  four  o'clock.  Do  'em  be- 
tween you." 

"  All  right,"  said  Emmie,  while  Alice  at  once  put  on 
one  side  the  hats  she  was  doing,  took  three  of  Emmie's 
with  the  trimming,  and  at  once  began  to  work  on  them. 
Mr.  Tim  watched  them  working  a  moment,  and  then 
went  out. 

The  moment  he  had  gone  Alice  looked  at  Emmie  and 
Emmie,  feeling  scrutiny,  looked  at  Alice. 

"That's  funny,  isn't  it?"  said  Alice. 

Emmie  simply  pulled  a  face,  laughed,  and  then  bent 
over  her  work ;  she  felt  in  a  whirl. 

And  her  three  hats  were  not  only  done  on  time,  but 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  67 

they  were  done  well,  too,  with  as  regular  and  as  even  a 
stitching  as  the  most  critical  might  desire. 

Emmie  was  still  perturbed  as  she  went  to  dinner.  She 
was  wondering  and  imagining  and  fancying.  .  .  . 

Her  dinner  consisted  of  cold  beef  from  yesterday's 
joint,  some  red  cabbage  served  in  a  cup  without  a  handle, 
mashed  potatoes  and  bread  and  jam.  The  cutlery  was 
not  clean:  knives,  though  washed  after  use,  were  only 
really  cleaned  occasionally  —  if  they  looked  very  bad. 
The  plates  were  chipped,  odd,  cracked  and  scored.  The 
mashed  potatoes  were  served  out  of  a  pan,  which  re- 
mained on  the  hob  during  the  meal  —  vegetable  dishes 
were  rarely,  if  ever,  used  in  the  Bollins  household ;  wash- 
ing up  was  always  a  calculation. 

Emmie  ate  almost  her  usual  quantity,  but  she  had  a 
feeling  that  something  was  going  to  happen  —  that, 
doubtless,  accounted  for  the  "  almost." 

Nothing  happened,  at  any  rate,  that  day.  Emmie  pur- 
sued her  trimming  and  worked  at  home  in  the  evening 
on  an  underskirt  she  was  making  for  herself,  thinking 
a  good  deal  of  the  time  of  Mr.  Tim,  even  as  she  worked 
out  the  details  of  her  next  new  dress. 

In  the  ordinary  course  of  events  Emmie  did  not  see 
Mr.  Tim  every  day.  He  came  only  occasionally  to  the 
trimming-room  and,  unless  Emmie  happened  to  meet  him 
as  she  was  going  out  or  coming  into  the  works,  she  did 
not  come  in  contact  with  him.  She  met  him  on  the 
Wednesday.  He  was  at  the  gate  when  she  was  going 
out  with  Alice  Cannel  and  two  of  the  other  trimmers. 

He  was  wearing  his  black  cashmere  working  jacket 
and  apron,  and  had  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets. 
There  was  an  air  of  watchfulness  about  him,  as  if  there 


68  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

was  something  he  particularly  wanted  to  see.  Emmie 
caught  sight  of  him  as  she  emerged  from  the  building, 
and  had  time  to  note  the  look. 

Alice  whispered  to  her :     "  Mr.  Tim." 

"  Shut  up,"  said  Emmie,  and  she  straightened  herself 
and  thought :  "  I  am  glad  I  haven't  got  those  old  boots 
on  —  or  that  old  skirt.  ...  I  wonder  if.  .  .  ."  She 
got  no  further  with  definite  ideas;  she  was  too  intent  on 
the  occasion.  She  looked  at  Tim  and  then  on  the  ground 
and  then  at  him  again. 

He  stood  very  stolidly,  but  he  marked  Emmie  well. 
He  nodded  as  they  were  passing. 

"  G'night." 

"  Good  night,"  they  all  said,  and  Emmie  looked  straight 
into  his  eyes  for  one  brief  moment,  and  then  swiftly  on 
the  ground. 

He  made  a  slight  motion,  as  if  in  answer  to  an  impulse 
of  sorts,  and  then  stood  still. 

Emmie  turned  round  as  she  got  farther  down  the  road, 
and  Alice  Cannel  and  one  of  the  trimmers  left  her.  Mr. 
Tim  was  still  there. 

It  was  on  the  Wednesday  before  the  wakes  that  Emmie 
spoke  to  Mr.  Tim  again.  She  had  been  expecting  to 
speak  to  him  every  day  she  had  gone  to  the  works  since 
that  "  Belle  Vue  "  Saturday  —  a  Saturday  very  mem- 
orable to  her  now  —  and  had  tried  various  times  of  going 
and  coming  to  give  opportunity  and  Mr.  Tim  every  in- 
dulgence. 

She  returned  a  little  sooner  than  usual  on  Wednesday 
after  dinner,  and  was  stirred  with  a  glorious  emotion 
when  she  saw  Mr.  Tim  standing  by  the  big  gate  leading 
to  the  works.  "  He's  there,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  at 
once  she  began  to  congratulate  herself  she  was  as  neatly 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  69 

dressed  as  she  had  ever  been  in  her  working  clothes. 

Mr.  Tim  was  standing  without  apron,  smoking  his 
pipe. 

Emmie  looked  at  him  boldly. 

He  gave  her  the  very  slightest  of  nods,  and  did  not 
take  off  his  hat. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  and  it  was  enough  to  make  her  stand 
still. 

He  paused. 

She  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

"  Made  up  your  mind  yet  where  you're  goiflg  this 
wakes  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  told  you." 

"Blackpool?" 

"  Yes." 

"Going  with  .  .  .  Alice  Caraael?" 

"  Yes." 

He  spoke  deliberately. 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  with  her  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  shall  have  to  be  with  her  sometimes. 
.  .  .  Why?" 

She  felt  very  daring  and  cunning  as  she  put  this  ques- 
tion. 

He  looked  at  her  with  admiring  eyes  and  very  pleas- 
antly. 

"  Oh !  .  .  .  I  might  be  going  to  Blackpool  too.  .  .  . 
Only,  of  course,  if  you're  going  to  be  a  Siamese  Twin 
with  Alice  Cannel  .  .  .  well.  .  .  ." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  was  going  to  be  a  Siamese  Twin,  or 
whatever  you  call  it.  I  expect  I  can  leave  her  when  I 
want  and  go  on  my  own.  Alice  isn't  soft.  .  .  .  She'll 
soon  pick  up  a  chap  there,  for  that  matter."  Emmie 
laughed. 

So  did  Mr.  Tim.     He  liked  Emmie's  directness  and 


70  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

frankness.  She  met  him  half  way,  and  yet  there  was  an 
air  of  independence  both  in  her  bearing  and  speech  that 
appealed  to  him.  There  was  willingness  but  no  obsequi- 
ousness. 

"  Are  you  going  to  pick  up  a  chap  too  ?  "  he  asked. 

Emmie  shook  her  head. 

"  They  are  to  be  picked  up  easy  enough,"  she  said. 

"  H'm,"  he  paused.  "  Well,  er  —  look  here ;  I'm  going 
to  Blackpool  too.  Are  you  waiting  till  Saturday,  or 
what?  I'm  going  on  Friday  night." 

"Alice  and  I  wanted  to  go  on  Friday  if  we  could  — 
there's  a  tram  about  7 145  from  Victoria." 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  You  can  get  off  right  enough.  Ask  for 
your  money.  Tell  Miss  Frisby  to  get  your  book  made 
up  and  then  Mason'll  pay  you.  And,  er  .  .  .  I'll  be  sure 
to  meet  you  then.  You  can  tell  Miss  Frisby  I  said  you 
could  go  on  Friday."  He  nodded  pleasantly.  "  See  you 
Saturday  morning,  then." 

"  Right,"  she  said,  and  gave  him  another  glance  from 
her  dark  eyes  for  remembrance,  and  went  on  into  the 
yard  of  the  hat  works,  up  the  dirty  stone  steps  to  her 
place  in  the  trimming-room,  saying  to  herself:  "He's 
going  to  meet  me  on  the  pier.  .  .  .  What's  he  after  ?  Is 
he?  ...  Is  he?  ..."  And  then,  after  the  waves  of 
emotion  and  the  big  and  beautiful  speculations  had  all 
merged  into  a  feeling  of  glorious  satisfaction,  she  said 
to  herself:  "Well,  I  know  this  much  —  no  chap,  and 
Mr.  Tim  amongst  'em,  is  going  to  make  a  fool  of  me ! " 

She  picked  up  a  hat  and  began  to  work  at  it,  as  she 
recalled  Mr.  Tim  at  the  gate,  his  look,  his  attitude,  his 
tone.  "  He  was  waiting  for  me,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  He  was  that.  .  .  .  Well,  if  he's  after  me,  he'll  marry 
me.  .  .  ." 

There  were  trimmers  at  work  when  Emmie  reached 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  71 

her  own  particular  place,  for  they,  being  independent  of 
machinery,  and  also  being  piece-workers,  could  fling  their 
energies  into  their  labour  during  the  whole  of  the  dinner 
hour  if  they  wished.  As  many  of  them  brought  their 
dinners  with  them,  having  them  warmed  at  a  cottage 
near  and  eating  them  in  the  workroom,  it  frequently  hap- 
pened that  work  went  on  in  the  trimming-room  while 
the  men  were  resting. 

Emmie's  early  return  consequently  created  no  surprise 
and  called  forth  no  comment  —  except  from  Alice  Cannel. 
She  was  Emmie's  friend,  and  knew  her. 

When  she  came  back  from  dinner  she  lost  no  time  in 
getting  to  her  place.  She  put  her  feet  on  the  low  ledge 
that  ran  under  the  table,  pulled  her  skirt  around  her 
and  took  up  a  hat  which  had  the  trimmings  inside  it.  As 
she  bit  a  piece  of  thread  she  said  to  Emmie : 

"  You  came  back  soon." 

"  Not  that  soon,"  said  Emmie,  without  raising  her 
head. 

"  Go  on  with  you.  I  looked  up  and  down  and  waited 
a  bit,  and  I  was  soon." 

"  Well  .  .  .  perhaps  I  was.     We  can  go  on  Friday." 

"Oh!     Who  said  so?" 

Emmie  hesitated. 

"  Mr.  Tim." 

"Oh!  ...  Did  he?    When  did  you  see  him?  " 

"  After  dinner." 

"  Oh !  ...  So  that's  why  you  were  soon,  is  it  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  be  jolly  glad  I  asked  him,"  said  Emmie, 
blushing  slightly  and  thrusting  in  her  needle  in  and  out 
again  smartly. 

"  So  I  am.     But.  ...  Mr.  Tim,  eh?  " 

Emmie  leaned  forward  and  whispered : 

"  He's  going  to  Blackpool  too." 


72  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"Is  he?" 

"  Uh.  I  say!  You  won't  mind  if  I  go  out  with  him 
a  bit?" 

"  Has  he  asked  you  ?  " 

"  Yea." 

"  Does  he  know  I'm  going?  " 

"  Yes." 

Alice  paused  —  a  little  affected  by  jealousy,  but  very 
slightly.  She  was  good-natured,  though,  and  replied : 
"  Go  as  much  as  you  like.  I  can  soon  find  somebody. 
But  .  .  .  you  remember  Mary  Ford  ?  " 

"What  about  her?" 

Alice  nodded  significantly. 

"  Five  shillings  a  week,"  she  winked. 

Emmie  looked  angry. 

"If  you  think " 

"  Go  on !     I'm  only  warning  you !  " 

"  I  can  take  care  of  myself.     I'm  not  Mary  Ford." 

After  a  pause,  Alice  said  softly :  "  Mr.  Tim  going, 
eh?  ...  What  will  Mr.  Booke  say?" 

That  was  what  Emmie  was  wondering. 


CHAPTER  VI 

EMMIE'S  luggage  was  easily  contained  in  a  fair-sized 
cardboard  box,  and  looked  neat  enough  encased  in 
brown  paper  held  secure  by  a  couple  of  straps  joined  by 
a  leather  handle.  Alice  Cannel  carried  similar  luggage. 
They  were  both  excited  for  they  had  had  a  complete 
change  of  clothes  and  felt  very  clean  and  spruce  and  well 
adorned.  Alice  called  for  Emmie,  and  as  the  two  walked 
down  Silton  Street  carrying  their  bags,  Mrs.  Bollins 
stood  at  the  door  and  watched  them  go  with  a  certain 
pride.  Mrs.  Grey,  across  the  road,  nodded  towards  the 
girls  and  shouted : 

"Off  for  the  wakes?" 

"  Yes !  "  shouted  Mrs.  Bollins. 

"Whereto?" 

"  Blackpool." 

"  Oh !  well  ...  it  wants  a  bit  o'  beatin'.  .  .  .  Emmie 
looks  well.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes." 

The  two  women  watched  the  two  girls  turn  out  of 
Silton  Street  to  get  into  Manchester  Road  on  their  way 
to  the  station. 

Emmie  and  Alice  were  certainly  conscious  of  their  ap- 
pearance as  they  were  stirred  by  their  adventure. 

"  Wonder  if  the  rooms'll  be  all  right,"  said  Alice. 

"  Should  be,"  said  Emmie.  "  Mrs.  James  said  she'd 
been  four  years  running." 

"  That  sounds  good  enough.  Have  you  brought  any- 
thing with  you?  " 

"  A  bit  o'  tea  and  sugar,  and  some  boiled  ham.  Mother 

73 


74  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

said  it  would  save  us  going  out  getting  something  for 
supper.  And  this  is  all  right:  it's  from  Mrs.  Brown's." 

"That  corner  shop?" 

"  Yes." 

They  hurried  out  the  station  to  catch  the  train,  for 
which  they  would  have  to  wait  at  least  half  an  hour  at 
the  rate  at  which  they  were  walking,  but  excitement 
goaded  them  on. 

Emmie  said  nothing  of  one  particular  hope  or  expecta- 
tion that  moved  her  as  they  waited  on  the  platform  at 
Canton  Station,  but  Alice  maybe  divined  it,  for  she  said : 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Tim's  going  by  this  train?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Emmie,  with  as  much  careless- 
ness in  the  tone  as  she  could  fairly  assume. 

Mr.  Tim,  however,  did  not  go  by  that  train.  He  had 
originally  intended  to  do  so,  but  the  presence  of  Alice 
made  him  decide  to  go  by  an  earlier  one.  Tim  was  one 
of  those  people  who,  without  being  too  assertive  or  dom- 
inating or  selfish,  could  make  up  his  mind  not  only  as  to 
the  things  he  wanted  but  also  as  to  those  he  did  not  want. 
He  wanted  Emmie,  and  not  Emmie  and  Alice.  Occa- 
sionally he  felt  he  might  have  to  put  up  with  a  little  of 
Alice,  but  he  realised  that  a  journey  to  Blackpool  just 
now,  in  probably  a  full  carriage,  with  Alice  and  Emmie, 
would  not  give  him  the  satisfaction  he  desired. 

The  two  girls  managed  very  well.  They  arrived  at 
Talbot  Road,  Blackpool,  after  a  journey  that  might  be 
described  as  uneventful,  but  which,  to  them,  was  crammed 
with  a  suggestive  excitement  and  adventure. 

At  Blackpool,  men  offering  to  carry  their  parcels  were 
quietly  ignored  and  Emmie,  getting  directions  from  a 
policeman,  led  the  way  to  the  lodgings  which  had  been 
recommended  them. 

There  they  shared  a  bedroom,  sleeping  together  in  the 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  75 

same  bed,  and  were  allotted  places  at  the  dining-table  in 
the  common  room,  where  other  lodgers,  like  themselves, 
paid  for  lodgings  and  bought  their  own  food  which  the 
landlady  prepared,  thus  giving  the  board  at  meal  time 
an  appearance  of  variety  in  diet  that  was  striking  and 
interesting. 

It  was  not  till  the  following  morning  that  Emmie  met 
Mr.  Tim.  Alice  behaved  very  well,  though  she  had  just 
a  slight  feeling  of  jealousy  and  of  being  neglected,  but 
was  pleasant  at  Emmie's  departure. 

"  You  take  care  of  yourself,"  she  said. 

"  Go  on  with  you,"  replied  Emmie. 

"  Oh !     Ay.  .  .  .  Half  past  twelve  dinner,  mind." 

"  I  won't  forget." 

Emmie  walked  with  the  pride  of  the  well  dressed  and 
the  independence  of  her  northern  working  race  and  spirit. 
She  was  wearing  a  pretty  soft-flowered  dress,  which  fitted 
tightly  to  the  waist,  having  about  half  a  dozen  small  pleats 
running  from  the  neck,  and  lace  on  the  right  side  where 
it  fastened.  The  sleeves  were  tight  and  finished  just  be- 
low the  elbow,  where  there  was  more  lace.  On  the  right 
hand  side  the  dress  seemed  lifted  artistically  where  it  was 
crowned  by  a  bow,  and  the  plain  pleated  skirt  showed 
from  about  three  or  four  inches  on  her  left  side  to  about 
eighteen  on  her  right.  Her  hat  was  a  straw,  the  shape 
of  a  plant  pot  with  a  narrow  brim,  and  had  a  bow  and  a 
feather  in  front.  The  dress  was,  of  course,  very  full 
from  the  waist,  as  it  was  thrust  out  by  the  bustle  of  the 
period. 

She  was  neatly  shod,  and  carried  a  parasol,  on  the  han- 
dle of  which  there  was  a  pink  bow. 

Mr.  Tim  was  waiting  on  the  pier,  and  felt  a  thrill  of 
delight  when  he  saw  her.  He  noticed  her  walk  and  her 
face  first.  It  was  Emmie  herself  that  struck  home.  But 


76  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

as  he  noticed  the  dress  he  felt  pleased  to  see  that  Emmie 
could  dress.  She  would  disgrace  nobody.  She  could 
walk  out  with  anybody.  .  .  . 

She  came  to  him,  smiling. 

He  met  her  with  a  frank,  genuine  welcome,  but  did  not 
touch  his  hat,  neither  did  they  shake  hands. 

"You've  got  here?" 

"  Looks  like  it,"  she  replied. 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  Lot  o'  people  about,  aren't  there  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Our  train  was  full.  What  time  did  you 
come  ?  " 

"  I  came  by  the  5  :2O.  That  was  full  too.  Got  a  new 
frock  on  ?  "  He  talked  calmly,  almost  deliberately,  but 
roamed  over  her  with  his  eyes. 

"Yes.     Do  you  like  it?" 

"  Yes." 

They  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  both  feeling  in  a 
mood  above  that  of  ordinary  holiday  makers.  They 
looked  at  the  rolling  blue  sea,  and  were  content  to  watch 
wave  after  wave  rise  and  fall,  merely  making  occasional 
remarks,  such  as,  "  That's  a  big  one.  .  .  ."  "  Looks 
fine.  .  .  ."  And,  "  This  air's  good,"  from  him. 

Emmie  was  saying  to  herself:  He's  gone  on  me. 
.  .  .  I  wonder?  As  if  she  were  calculating  a  little.  But 
she  had  perfect  confidence  in  herself,  and  her  unspoken 
resolution  was:  But  he's  not  going  to  make  a  fool  of 
me. 

Tim  was  just  happy.  He  was  in  love  with  Emmie 
and  fully  realised  it.  He  was  thoroughly  enjoying  him- 
self in  her  society  on  that  Blackpool  pier  when  he  made 
remarks  about  the  sea,  the  air,  the  people  that  passed,  the 
folk  they  saw  on  the  sands  or  anything  or  anybody  else. 
He  was  happy  because  Emmie  was  his  companion  and 
gave  him,  by  her  demeanour,  a  fair  assurance  that  she 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  77 

would  acquiesce  in  his  ultimate  desires.  He  was  nat- 
urally a  little  more  excited  than  was  customary  with  him, 
but  gave  no  observer  —  other  than  Emmie  —  any  hint  of 
that.  He  appeared  calm,  well-to-do,  solid,  satisfied,  bent 
on  holiday-making,  and  starting  with  perfect  reasonable- 
ness by  having  a  blow  on  the  pier  and  a  look  round. 

All  about  were  other  people  in  twos  and  threes  and 
batches  and  alone.  Many  of  them  had  the  air  of  those 
who  were  newcomers,  but  there  were  others  sporting 
about  with  familiar  airs,  denoting  that  this  walk  on  the 
pier  was  getting  quite  a  common  thing  to  them.  Emmie 
noticed  these  and  saw  in  their  behaviour  something  very 
enticing.  It  seemed  to  suggest  the  lengthened  stay  at 
the  seaside  —  a  week,  two  weeks,  even.  Imagine  staying 
for  two  whole  weeks  at  Blackpool!  The  idea  was  lux- 
urious. None  of  Emmie's  friends  ever  stayed  more  than 
four  days  —  five  was  a  special  and  an  almost  extravagant 
affair.  In  fact,  many  of  the  Canton  hat  manufacturers, 
like  Mr.  Booke,  for  instance,  rarely  went  away  for  more 
than  ten  days  at  a  time. 

And  yet  Emmie  felt  no  envy  for  these  favoured  ones. 
She  was  interested  as  she  heard  a  group  chatter  gaily 
about  some  excursion  taken  last  week  and  fix  a  new  one 
for  next  week,  but  had  no  envy.  What  was  going  to  be 
her  fate?  Would  she  some  day  be  as  well-off  as 
they?  .  .  .  They  could  talk  about  their  excursions  if  they 
wanted  to.  ...  She  was  in  a  mood  to  make  small  stuff 
of  casual  excursions. 

That  was  the  thought  that  came  to  her  more  than  any 
other.  In  various  expressions  of  course.  It  simply 
meant:  Is  Mr.  Tim  serious?  What  does  he  really 
mean?  And  if  he  is  serious!  .  .  .  The  height  was  al- 
most dizzying. 

And  all  the  time  he  flung  over  her  looks  that  were  a 


78  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

frank  confession  of  liking  and  approval  and  satisfaction. 
But  rich  young  men  had  shown  likings  for  working  girls 
before.  .  .  . 

So  Emmie  had  doubt  and  fear  mingled  every  now  and 
then  with  her  hope  and  confidence,  though  whenever  Mr. 
Tim  spoke  to  her  she  felt  serenely  comfortable.  He  was 
so  easy  and  cosy,  so  to  speak,  and  yet  flung  into  his  man- 
ner an  intimacy  of  expression  that  could  be  felt,  if  not 
explained,  to  a  third  person. 

Their  talk  was  a  mere  meandering  stream  of  common- 
places. There  was  so  much  of  the  unusual  to  attract 
them  both  that  simple  comments  were  natural  and  spon- 
taneous. 

Once  Tim,  as  he  leaned  over  the  pier,  got  hold  of 
Emmie  by  the  arm. 

"  Look,"  he  said. 

Emmie  turned  at  once.  It  was  merely  a  boat  being 
rowed  near  the  pier. 

"  M-m,"  she  said. 

Tim  made  some  remark,  but  what  Emmie  noticed  most 
was  that  he  still  held  her  arm.  There  was  no  necessity 
for  him  to  keep  her  to  the  position,  and  both  he  and  she 
knew  it.  Also  both  pretended  to  ignore  what  was  hap- 
pening. 

But  Emmie  noted  the  incident  and  wondered  if  it 
really  was  an  indication  of  something  deep  and  seri- 
ous. ... 

The  sea  rolled  past  the  supports  of  the  pier  with  an 
uncanny  power,  giving  them  the  idea  that  no  human  being 
could  hope  to  withstand  it  if  it  came  to  a  struggle.  And 
yet  there  were  people  in  small  boats  managing  to  do  what 
they  wanted  on  the  tops  of  these  very  waves.  It  was  all 
right  if  you  behaved  properly  and  knew  what  to  do.  ... 
The  reflection  seemed  to  Emmie  a  kind  of  augury  and 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  79 

comfort.  Well,  she  knew  what  she  wanted,  and  she 
thought  she  knew  how  to  behave.  .  .  . 

And  Tim  still  held  her  arm.  She  felt  him  looking  at 
her  and  turned  her  eyes  towards  him.  There  was  no 
need  for  her  to  be  told  of  his  love  for  her  —  that  was  as 
patent  as  the  power  and  vitality  of  the  rolling  sea.  The 
sudden  conviction  stirred  her.  She  felt  a  strange  emo- 
tion move  within  her.  She  did  not  withdraw  her  gaze, 
but  its  simple  curiosity  was  softened.  She  smiled,  with 
hints  in  those  expressive  eyes  of  hers. 

He  pressed  her  arm  and  seemed  to  get  closer  to  her. 

"  Go  on,"  she  whispered.     "  There's  folk  about." 

"  What  does  it  matter?  "  he  murmured. 

She  felt  it  did  not  really  matter  at  all,  in  view  of  what 
was  at  stake ;  but  still,  it  did  not  do  to  say  such  things. 

"What  shall  we  do  this  afternoon?  " 

The  very  idea  was  joy  to  her,  for  it  showed  he  was  so 
happy,  in  her  society,  he  wished  to  be  with  her  almost 
continuously. 

"  There's  Alice,  you  know,"  she  said. 

"  What's  she  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

Emmie  smiled  a  little.  She  knew  Alice  would  stand 
no  chance  against  this  great  circumstance;  but  then,  it 
would  not  do  to  express  herself  too  boisterously  just  yet. 
Mr.  Tim  could  be  himself  (if  he  were  not  playing  a 
game),  but  she  had  to  be  wary  and  indulge  in  calcula- 
tion. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  pausing  a  little  and  using  her  eyes 
both  for  observation  and  effect,  "  I  must  be  with  her 
sometimes." 

"  You're  with  her  enough  in  Ganton." 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  we've  come  here  together,  haven't  we  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  But  she's  probably  off  with  some  chap 
and  doesn't  want  you." 


8o  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  In  that  case,  of  course " 

"  Look  here,  Emmie,  we'll  go  to-night,  in  any  case,  to 
RaikesHall,  eh?" 

"To-night?" 

"Yes." 

"  All  right.  There's  dancing,  isn't  there?  "  This  was 
very  alluring. 

"  Yes." 

They  arranged  to  meet  in  the  evening,  so  as  to  go  to 
Raikes  Hall  together,  which  was,  at  that  time,  one  of  the 
most  popular  of  Blackpool  attractions. 

And  now  they  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  pier. 
Tim  talked  just  as  naturally  as  if  he  and  Emmie  had 
been  walking  on  a  Blackpool  pier  for  the  hundredth  time. 
Emmie  could  not  forget  him  and  lose  herself  in  the  sur- 
roundings. She  was  far  more  interested  in  the  people 
near  her,  and  in  Mr.  Tim,  than  in  the  numerous  incidents 
to  which  Tim  kept  calling  her  attention.  She  was  all 
observation  and  a  desire  to  be  observed.  She  was  noting 
dress  and  walks  and  speech  and  Mr.  Tim  and  his  be- 
haviour, and  was  very  interested  when  he  took  off  his  hat 
to  somebody. 

Emmie  turned  quickly,  and  then  feeling  she  must  not 
behave  as  if  filled  to  overflowing  with  curiosity,  averted 
her  eyes,  somewhat  dissatisfied  that  she  had  not  seen 
well  who  were  those  people  to  whom  Mr.  Tim  raised  his 
hat.  A  mother  and  daughter.  .  .  .  Emmie  fancied  she 
knew  them.  She  hesitated  to  ask  out  of  a  little  diffidence 
—  a  disinclination  to  seem  too  curious,  to  pry,  particu- 
larly lest  it  might  excite  derision  or  contempt  or  a  feeling 
of  simple  disapproval  in  Tim. 
She  looked  at  him. 

He  had  a  curious  look  on  his  face  —  only  to  be  noted 
by  some  one  as  keenly  interested  in  him  as  Emmie  was. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  81 

She  had  to  ask :     "  Who  was  that  ?  " 

i 

He  paused. 

"  Don't  you  know  them  ?  " 

Emmie  turned,  very  glad  of  the  excuse,  but  too  many 
people  intervened  now  for  her  to  see  the  two  ladies 
well. 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  I  can't  see  them  now." 

"  They're  Gantonians." 

"Well,  who  are  they?" 

He  laughed,  realising  from  her  tone  he  was  teasing  her 
a  little. 

"  It's  Mrs.  Quillan  and  her  daughter,"  he  said,  after 
a  pause. 

"  What  —  oh.  ...  Live  in  Stockport  Road." 

"  Yes." 

"  Them,  eh  ?  .  .  ."  And  at  once  Emmie  lost  herself 
in  speculation.  Mrs.  Quillan  and  her  daughter.  .  .  . 
They  had  seen  Mr.  Tim  with  her.  .  .  .  He  had  raised 
his  hat  and  didn't  seem  to  mind  having  been  seen  with 
her  —  Emmie  Bollins  —  at  all. 

She  felt  greatly  elated,  and  could  have  taken  Mr.  Tim's 
arm  with  a  little  encouragement,  and  might  actually  have 
done  so  if  Mrs.  Quillan  and  her  daughter  had  passed 
them  again  at  that  moment. 

So  far  as  Emmie  was  concerned  this  little  incident  was 
really  the  most  impressive  of  the  morning.  The  great 
moving  billowy  sea,  with  its  infinite  suggestiveness,  faded 
into  a  mere  insignificance  besides  Mr.  Tim's  attitude  as 
he  walked  with  her  and  took  his  hat  off  to  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Quillan. 

Mr.  Tim  didn't  mind  being  seen  with  her  by  Gantoni- 
ans who  knew  him  —  that  was  evident.  On  the  con- 
trary, if  Emmie  was  any  judge  of  an  expression  at  all, 
he  had  seemed  to  be  almost  pleased  at  the  meeting,  and 


82  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

had  certainly  not  appeared  embarrassed  or  awkward,  or 
shown  any  desire  to  leave  Emmie's  side. 

He  said  to  her  before  parting:  "Now  don't  go  and 
fix  up  anything  with  Alice  Cannel  for  to-morrow." 

Of  course,  she  was  pleased  to  hear  him  say  that,  and 
looked  at  him  boldly  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  but  I  must  be  with  her  a  bit." 

She  laughed,  being  very  happy. 

"Yes,  but " 

"  Not  so  many  buts,  now." 

"  That's  all  very  well,  but  I've  come  with  her." 

"  You  can  go  back  with  her,  too,  for  that  matter,  but 
I'm  having  you  while  you're  here,  so  you  can  let  her 
know." 

The  speech  was  direct,  and  bordered  on  the  proprie- 
tary; but  as  no  words  of  love  had  yet  been  spoken,  Em- 
mie was  still  feeling  the  need  to  struggle  a  little  for 
definiteness. 

"  M-m,"  she  said,  looking  pert. 

"  You  understand  ?  " 

"What  are  you  after?  "  she  ventured,  a  little  timidly. 

"  You,"  he  said  quickly. 

She  did  not  dare  to  ask  more.  In  a  way  it  was  enough, 
but  in  another  way  it  was  not.  She  was  wanted.  .  .  . 
Yes,  but  ... 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly,  and  he  felt  the  power 
of  her  eyes. 

"  You  can  be  with  her,  if  you  like,  this  afternoon,  but 
let  that  finish  it.  And  it's  Raikes  Hall  to-night,  mind." 

She  nodded,  still  gazing  at  him  probingly. 

Emmie  was  still  in  a  whirl  of  uncertainty  as  she  went 
into  her  lodgings.  There  was  no  doubt  about  Mr.  Tim's 
attitude.  He  wanted  her.  He  said  so  and  showed  it. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  83 

But  did  he  mean  marriage?  That  was  the  great  ques- 
tion. If  he  did.  .  .  .  Suppose  he  did.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Tim- 
othy Booke.  .  .  . 

She  was  wondrously  excited  as  she  thought  of  that, 
but  not  at  all  dismayed  or  hesitant.  There  was  no  quail- 
ing at  the  height,  no  doubt  as  to  competency.  She  at 
once  began  to  comfort  and  encourage  herself  by  remem- 
bering that  the  wives  of  some  of  the  rich  men  in  Canton 
had  been  in  as  humble  a  way  as  herself  when  they  were 
married. 

Alice  Cannel  met  her  with :  "  Well.  .  .  .  Been  with 
him?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Going  again?  " 

"  Yes.  Here,  Alice,  do  you  mind  if  I'm  with  him  a 
lot?" 

Alice  couldn't  at  once  be  magnanimous.  She  said : 
"  Seems  funny  coming  with  me  and  then  going  off  all 
the  time  by  yourself." 

"  Well,  you  see  how  it  is." 

And  Alice,  her  momentary  chill  over,  replied  gaily: 
"  It's  all  right,  Emmie.  You  go.  But  what's  he  after? 
Is  he  going  to  marry  you  ?  " 

Emmie  was  silent. 

"  Don't  let  him  play  any  tricks  on  you,"  said  Alice. 
"  It's  all  very  well  for  them " 

"  D'you  think  I'm  a  fool  ?  "  said  Emmie  quickly. 

"  Go  on  with  you.  There's  many  a  girl  as  thought  her- 
self very  smart  as  has  been  fooled  by  a  chap.  If  he  says 
nothing,  ask  him  what  his  game  is." 

"  He's  all  right,"  said  Emmie  quietly,  still  desiring  very 
greatly,  and  still  unable  to  get  rid  of  the  haunting  fear. 

"  Let's  hope  so.  If  he  does  want  to  marry  you.  .  .  . 
It  .  .  Eh? " 


84  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Oh!  Be  quiet,"  said  Emmie,  half  afraid  of  spoiling 
the  dream  by  discussing  it. 

"  Well,  Emmie,  I  wish  you  luck.  I  say !  I  picked  up 
such  a  nice  chap  this  morning.  Came  from  Stockport. 
I  think  he's  a  traveller  at  a  hat  works  there ;  funny,  isn't 
it?  But  he  was  dancing  about  me.  ...  I  dunno.  .  .  . 
I'm  seeing  him  to-night.  We're  going  to  the  Winter  Gar- 
dens for  a  skate  or  else  to  Raikes  Hall." 

It  was  during  the  dancing  at  Raikes  Hall  that  Emmie 
managed  to  fling  away  the  doubt  that  had  harassed  her. 

Mr.  Tim  had  met  her  with  a  patent  joy  in  the  greet- 
ing. 

"Well,  told  Alice?"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

" That's  right.     What  did  you  do  this  afternoon? " 

"  Walked  about." 

"Who  with?" 

"  Myself/' 

"What!" 

She  laughed. 

"  I'd  like  to  shake  you,"  he  said,  and  she  was  delighted. 
"  I  suppose  she  got  off  with  somebody  else  ?  " 

"  She  knows  somebody  here,  and  we  met  him." 

He  took  her  arm  again,  and  when  they  got  amongst 
the  crowd  at  Raikes  Hall,  he  said :  "  Well,  I  know  you 
like  dancing." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  she  answered  roguishly. 

"  Yes,"  and  he  forthwith  put  an  arm  around  her  waist, 
making  her  dance  almost  before  she  was  ready. 

She  liked  the  masterfulness,  and  as  she  thoroughly  en- 
joyed the  dance,  it  was  no  wonder  there  was  a  flush  of 
gorgeous  pleasure  on  her  cheek  when  the  dance  was  over. 

"  By  Gum !     You  look  well,"  he  said. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  85 

She  stroked  her  cheeks. 

"A  bit  warm,  isn't  it?  "  $he  said. 

"  Yes.     Let's  have  a  bit  of  a  stroll." 

He  led  her  along  the  path  in  the  open  to  a  seat  under 
the  shadow  and  shelter  of  a  tree. 

It  was  a  beautiful  soft  August  evening.  There  was  a 
hum  of  voices  and  gladness  in  the  air.  The  livid  moon 
looked  austere  in  its  beauty  and  loneliness.  The  leaves 
of  the  trees  scarcely  stirred  in  the  calm  air,  while  the 
occasional  laughs  and  footfalls  of  the  happy  holiday- 
makers  came  to  Tim  and  Emmie  with  an  almost  regular 
plentitude. 

"Sit  down." 

As  he  sat  beside  her  he  looked  at  her  and  then  put  his 
arm  round  her,  pulled  her  face  to  him  and  kissed  her. 

Her  heart  was  beating  wildly.  She  looked  at  him  tim- 
idly, almost  pleadingly.  She  was  breathing  fast. 

"  You're  a  bonny  'un,  Emmie,"  he  said,  with  a  lover's 
voice. 

"  What  are  you  after,"  she  muttered,  worming  herself 
a  little  closer,  while  her  hand  seemed  to  creep  up  as  a 
sign  of  either  protest  or  willingness. 

"  Why,  you.  .  .  .  What.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  marry  you 
—  that'll  suit  you,  won't  it?" 

Her  breath  came  in  gasps  but  she  nodded  eagerly,  and 
when  he  kissed  her  again  he  felt  she  was  kissing  him  too, 
with  a  burning  passion. 

"  I  said  to  myself  I'd  have  you,  when  I  met  you  at 
Belle  Vue." 

"Did  you?"  she  said,  still  most  excited  and  revelling 
in  the  situation  and  resting  her  hand  in  his. 

"  I  did.  I'll  buy  you  a  ring  on  Monday  —  or  when 
we  get  back;  buy  you  a  better  one  in  Manchester  than 
here,"  and  he  pulled  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  again. 


CHAPTER  VII 

EMMIE'S  visit  to  Blackpool  in  the  August  of  1885 
left  a  picture  in  her  mind  at  once  blurred  and  vivid, 
and  altogether  unforgettable.  It  was  like  a  gorgeous 
sunset  in  which  everything  is  subordinate  to  the  blazing 
sun.  In  Emmie's  memory  there  were  vague  people  on  a 
vague  pier,  rows  of  vague  oyster  stalls,  a  place  called 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  where  she  had  danced,  some  gipsies 
on  the  south  shore,  but  a  very  definite  place  called  Raikes 
Hall,  and  a  great  outstanding  fact  —  Mr.  Tim  Booke 
was  going  to  marry  her. 

Of  course  he  called  her  Emmie  easily  enough,  for  he 
had  called  her  that  at  the  works  whenever  he  had  had 
occasion  to  address  her,  but  she  found  it  just  a  trifle  awk- 
ward to  call  him  "  Tim."  She  boggled  at  it  for  a  time, 
and  said  nothing  in  the  way  of  a  name,  contenting  her- 
self with  raising  her  voice  or  just  saying  "  Here ! "  .  .  . 

But  she  saw  that  familiarity  was  all  to  her  advantage, 
and  so  boldly  said  "  Tim  "  one  afternoon.  After  that  it 
seemed  to  Emmie  that  all  the  King's  horses  and  all  the 
King's  men  could  not  drag  her  from  her  thrilling  joy. 
For  she  was  thrilled.  The  thrills  kept  coming  to  her, 
like  companies  at  a  march  past.  "  Mrs.  Timothy  Booke. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Timothy  Booke.  .  .  .  What  will  Mrs.  So  and 
So  say?  And  Mary  X?  And  the  Y's?  .  .  .  In  the 
trimming-room,  too.  .  .  ."  That  was  one  triumphal 
tune.  Another  was  headed  by  the  usual  "  Mrs.  Timothy 
Booke.  Where  shall  we  live  ?  No  more  trimming.  .  .  . 
The  minister  coming  to  see  me.  .  .  .  Eee!  .  .  ."  And 
another :  "  We  shall  be  called  in  church.  .  .  .  They'll 

86 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  87 

all  hear  it.  ...  Timothy  Booke  and  Emily  Bollins.  .  .  ." 
Thrills !  They  seemed  at  first  unending.  Emmie  was 
in  Elysium.  She  was  so  stirred  with  emotion  that  there 
was  a  danger,  on  occasions,  of  her  forgetting  Mr.  Tim 
himself  in  the  things  he  represented,  for  he  represented 
so  very  much  to  Emmie. 

However,  that  was  only  in  the  early  days,  for  though 
some  of  the  pictures  recurred  again  and  again,  the  fa- 
miliarity with  Mr.  Tim  at  last  let  Emmie  realise  him 
more  and  more  as  man  and  lover,  and  not  the  mere  carrier 
of  gorgeous  things  to  her.  She  properly  appraised  his 
level-headedness ;  she  felt  he  was  no  fool;  he  could  be 
trusted  to  do  the  sensible  thing;  he  was  kind,  too,  not 
mean;  pleasant,  not  bad-tempered  and  not  given  to  get- 
ting drunk. 

Alice  had  received  the  news  fairly  well.  She  was  in- 
clined to  be  a  little  jealous  and  realised  she  had  been  easily 
outdistanced  by  Emmie,  for  there  was  no  denying  the 
substantiality  of  Mr.  Tim,  nor  his  standing  in  Canton 
(and  if  a  man  stood  well  in  Canton,  he  stood  well  in 
Lancashire;  and  if  well  in  Lancashire,  then  .  .  .  any- 
where). Emmie,  as  Mrs.  Timothy  Booke,  would  be  a 
person  of  importance.  Alice  hung  for  a  trifle  on  a  mere 
nodding  of  her  head.  Emmie  to  have  got  Mr.  Tim.  .  .  . 
She  wished  she  had  had  luck  like  that  —  not  necessarily 
Mr.  Tim,  but  something  like  it.  But  she  said  candidly: 
"  Well,  good  luck  to  you,  Emmie.  Mr.  Tim's  all  right. 
.  .  .  And  he  will  marry  you  ?  " 

"Yes.     A'M't  I  telling  you?" 

"  H'm.  Well,  I  wish  you  luck,  I  do  indeed.  Nobody 
else  in  t'  trimming-room'll  do  as  well,  so  you  can  flatter 
yourself  with  that.  You'll  let  it  out,  won't  you?  " 

"Ye-es.     Why  not?" 


88  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  If  I  were  in  your  place  I'd  tell  everybody;  you  have 
no  secret  about  it.  I  wonder  what  Miss  Booke'll  say  ?  " 

"  What  can  she  say  ?  "  said  Emmie  quickly. 

"  Nothing,  of  course,  against  you.  I'm  not  meaning 
that.  Only,  you  know  what  the  Bookes  are  —  particu- 
larly that  Miss  Booke,  with  her  nose  up." 

"  Mrs.  Holten's  got  a  tongue  with  a  bit  of  a  file  on  it," 
said  Emmie. 

"  Never  you  mind,"  said  Alice.  "  Once  you're  mar- 
ried you  can  put  your  ringers  to  your  nose  at  Mrs.  Holten 
and  Miss  Booke  and  all  the  lot  of  'em.  ...  I  wonder 
where  you'll  live.  .  .  .  And  what  will  they  say  at  home, 
eh?  Tell  me  what  he  said  to  you,  Emmie,  when  he  said 
he'd  marry  you  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  was  going  to  marry  me." 

"Them  words?" 

"  Yes." 

"Oh!  .  .  ." 

"  He  said  he'd  made  up  his  mind  when  he  met  me  at 
Belle  Vue  —  you  remember  ?  " 

"  If  I  didn't  think  it !  I  said  he  was  gone  on  you  then. 
Well.  ...  At  any  rate,  here's  luck !  "  Alice  kissed  her 
friend.  "  I  suppose  you'll  keep  on  coming  to  the  trim- 
ming-room till  you're  properly  married  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?     Got  to  live,  haven't  I  ?  " 

After  the  wakes,  when  work  was  resumed  in  the  Gan- 
ton  hat  factories,  Mr.  Tim  and  Emmie  went  about  their 
business  at  "  T.  Booke  &  Son's  "  just  as  they  had  done 
before  these  momentous  holidays  had  come. 

But  things  were  not  the  same.  Alice  was  delighted  to 
be  the  bearer  of  surprising  news.  There  was  no  reason 
for  Emmie  to  hold  her  tongue,  but  she  found  no  neces- 
sity to  be  eager  to  proclaim  the  news;  her  service  was 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  89 

principally  to  confirm  the  oft-repeated  question :  "  I  hear 
as  you're  going  to  marry  Mr.  Tim  " —  or  "  young  Mr. 
Tim."  To  her  family  Emmie  was  explicit.  Mrs.  Bol- 
lins  looked  very  proud,  with  a  suspicion  of  anxiety. 

"Mr.  Tim?"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  from  Emmie. 

"  And  he  said  he'd  marry  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Er.  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  glad.  His,  er.  .  .  .  There's, 
er.  .  .  .  It's,  er.  .  .  ." 

Emmie  was  frank. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  think,  Mother,  he's  forced  to  marry 
me.  You  might  just  as  well  speak  out.  I'm  not  one  of 
that  sort,  and  you  ought  to  know  me  by  now.  He's  going 
to  marry  me  because  he  wants  to,  and  if  I  never  saw  him 
again ;  well  —  there'd  be  no  disgrace." 

"Don't  get  excited,  Emmie;  I  didn't  mean  anything 
wrong,  and  I'm  very  glad.  Mr.  Tim.  .  .  .  He's  a  nice, 
gentlemanly  man.  .  .  .  Nicer  than  his  father,  for  that 
matter.  What  do  they  say  in  th'  trimming-room  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  And  care  less,"  said  Emmie. 

Mr.  Tim  made  no  pretence  of  asking  the  consent  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bollins:  he  took  it  for  granted.  He  and 
Emmie  had  agreed  to  get  married,  and  practically,  he 
considered  nobody  else  had  any  consent  to  give  or  with- 
hold. He  did  not  even  call  at  the  Bollins'  for  a  little 
time.  When  he  wished  to  make  an  appointment  with 
Emmie  he  would  waylay  her  as  she  was  going  out  or 
coming  into  the  works,  and  say  quite  casually :  "  To- 
night, about  nine  —  top  of  Town  Lane?"  Or: 
"  Windmill  Lane  to-morrow  night,  about  half  past  eight/' 
Or  on  a  Saturday  he  would  say,  perhaps :  "  Let's  go  to 
Manchester  to-night;  there's  a  good  thing  on  at  the 


90  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Theatre  Royal.  Catch  the  half  past  six  tram.  I'll  get 
on  at  the  Station.  .  .  ." 

And  Emmie  invariably  acquiesced.  She  never  made 
difficulties  or  hesitated,  but  just  smiled  and  said  "  Yes." 
When  she  was  with  him  on  any  of  these  excursions  she 
was  always  thoroughly  happy.  It  would  not  be  correct 
to  say  she  forgot  altogether  the  great  fact  that  she  was 
engaged  to  the  son  of  a  hat  manufacturer,  some  one,  at 
any  rate,  much  better  off  financially  and  socially  than 
herself  —  but  it  sank  oftener  than  not  into  a  feeling  of 
general  content  in  Tim's  presence.  He  was  "  nice  " ;  he 
had  a  pleasant,  jolly  way,  and  could  lead,  guide  and  pro- 
tect as  well  as  make  her  feel  now  and  then  that  there 
were  things  almost  entirely  in  her  province  which  he 
looked  to  her  to  do.  He  was  very  rarely  ill-tempered, 
and  as  time  passed  Emmie  grew  more  and  more  to  like 
and  really  to  love  him. 

But  meanwhile  the  rumour  of  the  engagement  spread. 
There  were,  of  course,  the  topics  of  conversation,  and 
doubtless  plenty  of  other  rumours  to  compete  with  or 
accompany  this,  but  Tim's  engagement  to  Emmie  Bol- 
lins,  "  one  of  the  trimmers,"  was  an  item  worth  passing 
on. 

"  I  hear  young  Tim  Booke's  walking  out  with  one  of 
their  trimmers  —  Emmie  Bollins  — "  that  was  as  often 
as  not  the  manner  of  the  news-bearer.  Details  and  con- 
firmation followed.  A  had  seen  them  together.  B 
thought  he  (or  she)  had. 

And  of  course  rumour  was  not  going  to  stop  on  the 
doorstep  of  Miss  Booke's,  for  instance,  or  Mrs.  Holten's, 
or  Mrs.  Grass's,  or  Mr.  Booke's,  Senior,  for  that  matter. 

Miss  Booke  actually  got  the  news  first  —  and  got  it 
from  her  charwoman,  of  all  people !  "  Was  it  true  that 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  91 

Mr.  Timothy  Booke's  son  was  walkin'  out  wi'  Sam  Bol- 
lins'  daughter?  " 

Miss  Booke  said  "  What ! "  and  hoped  not,  indeed. 
But  she  had  no  sooner  heard  the  various  corroborative 
details :  "  So  and  So  had  seen  them  together  in  Black- 
pool. So  and  So  had  seen  them  in  Manchester.  So  and 
So  had  had  the  news  from  Mrs.  Bollins  herself.  And  it 
was  all  over  Booke  &  Son's !  .  .  ." 

Miss  Booke  had  a  lively  sense  of  the  adage  that  there 
is  not,  at  any  rate,  a  great  quantity  of  smoke  without 
fire  of  some  kind.  This  was  what  she  had  dreaded. 
Tim  walking  out  with  a  trimmer.  .  .  .  Bollins  —  she 
tried  to  recall  the  Bollins  family  and  remembered  Mr. 
Bollins,  in  dirty  shirtsleeves,  with  a  dirty  apron  in  front  of 
him,  a  wishy washy-looking  chap;  looked  as  if  he  wanted 
a  tonic  and  a  good  shaking.  .  .  .  His  daughter!  Miss 
Booke  then  had  a  recollection  of  Emmie,  the  trimmer. 
.  .  .  That  little  black-eyed  creature,  eh!  Suppose  she'd 
been  leering  at  Tim,  and  he,  like  a  young  fool,  had  been 
paying  her  some  attention,  perhaps  gone  a  walk  with  her. 
.  .  .  Well,  from  a  walk  in  a  lane  to  a  walk  down  the 
aisle  of  a  church  was  sometimes  a  long  way  .  .  .  and 
sometimes  not  .  .  .  She  wondered.  ...  It  might  be 
cheap  at  fifty  or  a  hundred  pounds.  .  .  .  Her  brother 
would  see  to  that.  Tim  marrying  a  trimmer  when  there 
was  Ellen  Quillan  waiting  for  him  ...  a  girl  like  Ellen 
Quillan,  a  lady,  and  with  money,  and  he  must  needs  go 
and  walk  out  with  a  trimmer.  Oh!  these  young  chaps; 
what  fools  they  could  make  of  themselves. 

Miss  Booke  was  dreadfully  worried  all  day,  and  wor- 
ried to  an  almost  exasperating  point  because  she  could 
not  go  and  talk  the  matter  over  with  any  other  member 
of  her  family  and  leave  Mrs.  Grundy,  the  charwoman, 


92  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

in  the  house.  She'd  never  done  that  yet,  and  wasn't  go- 
ing to  begin  for  all  the  nephews  in  the  world. 

But  the  moment  Mrs.  Grundy  had  gone,  Miss  Booke 
put  on  her  bonnet  —  ladies  of  a  certain  age  wore  bonnets 
in  those  days  —  and  went  with  firm  step,  mouth  tightly 
shut  and  head  erect,  to  her  sister's,  Mrs.  Holten's. 

Mrs.  Holten  looked  up  as  Miss  Booke  entered  the 
kitchen. 

"  Hello !  I  thought  this  was  your  day  for  Mrs. 
Grundy." 

"  So  it  is." 

"  Oh !  .  .  .  Nothing  wrong,  is  there  ?  "  she  asked,  see- 
ing obvious  news  in  her  sister's  face. 

Miss  Booke  held  her  lips  tightly  shut  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said :  "  Nothing  wrong.  .  .  .  Isn't  there  ? 
Well,  I  hope  not.  I  do,  indeed;  I  do,  indeed.  Are  they 
all  out?" 

"  Ye-es.  Come  in  the  drawing-room.  It's  nothing 
serious,  is  it?  "  Mrs.  Holten  went  with  a  quick,  brisk 
step  into  the  richly  furnished,  rarely  used  drawing-room. 
She  waited  till  her  sister  was  inside,  and  then  shut  the 
door. 

"  I  always  like  your  drawing-room,  Jane,"  said  Miss 
Booke;  "it  looks  rich  some  way " 

"Yes,  but " 

"  Um.  Tim's  walking  out  with  a  trimmer  —  one  of 
our  trimmers:  that  Bollins'  daughter." 

Mrs.  Holten  frowned  and  pressed  her  lips  together. 
There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  Walking  out.  .  .  .  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  she  asked 
sharply. 

"  It  means  that  Tim  means  to  marry  the  girl  if  he  isn't 
stopped." 

Both  pairs  of  lips  seemed  to  shut  tight  after  a  speech 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  93 

and  both  ladies  looked  capable  of  saying  and  of  doing 
much  if  they  could. 

"  Walking  out  with  a  daughter  of  Sam  Bollins.  ...  I 
know  her  —  Emmie  Bollins.  .  .  .  She's  a  good-looking 
girl ;  just  the  kind  Tim  would  fancy.  Eh,  dear !  These 
young  fellows!  How  did  you  find  it  out?  " 

Miss  Booke  related  all  the  details  she  had  heard  from 
Mrs.  Grundy,  and  Mrs.  Holten  was  impressed. 

She  made  melancholy  noises  with  her  tongue.  "  T't, 
ft,  ft.  .  .  .  What  will  folks  say?" 

"  What  won't  they?  "  snapped  Miss  Booke. 

"  Tim  Booke's  marrying  one  of  his  father's  trimmers. 
His  father-in-law's  that  Samuel  Bollins.  Have  you  been 
to  see  Timothy  yet  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  ?  I've  just  left  Mrs.  Grundy  to  come 
straight  to  you." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know ;  you  might  have  been  to  see  Tim- 
othy first."  They  were  both  a  little  irritable.  "  We 
must  go  and  see  Timothy  at  once;  it  must  be  stopped,  if 
possible.  I'd  give  twenty  pounds  before  I'd  see  Tim 
marry  that  girl.  .  .  .  And  Ellen  Quillan  there  waiting. 
.  .  .  We  shall  be  the  laughing  stock  of  the  place.  I'll 
come  with  you  now,  Maria ;  we'll  see  Timothy,  and  Tim, 
if  need  be." 

"  Tim  can  be  stubborn  when  he  likes." 

"  Yes.     And  he  can  be  a  fool,  too,  apparently." 

Mrs.  Holten  lost  no  time  in  getting  ready  to  go  out 
with  her  sister,  and  as  they  walked  into  Silton  Street 
towards  their  brother's  house,  they  dropped  into  a  medi- 
tative silence.  They  had  expressed  their  fears  —  prin- 
cipally fears  that  people  who  knew  them  would  pour  on 
them  a  kind  of  scorn,  and  hold  up  to  lightness  and  ridi- 
cule the  Booke  family  —  and  now  it  seemed  as  if  they  had 
to  dwell  on  the  bitter  situation. 


94  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Of  the  two,  Mrs.  Holten  was  the  more  capable ;  she  was 
not  quite  so  narrow  and  sour  as  her  unmarried  sister,  who 
was  always  prone  to  criticise,  and  had  got  worse  as  the 
years  passed. 

"  We  ought  to  catch  him,"  said  Miss  Booke,  as  they 
went  to  the  side  door. 

"  Let's  hope  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Holten  grimly. 

Mrs.  Bane  opened  the  door  and  was  surprised  to  see 
her  master's  two  formidable  sisters. 

Mrs.  Holten  smiled. 

"Mr.  Booke  in?" 

"  He's  about  somewhere,"  replied  Mrs.  Bane. 

Miss  Booke  nodded  austerely,  as  her  eyes  shot  glances 
at  skirting  boards,  corners,  paint,  anything  that  might 
show  up  the  "  lick  and  promise  "  housewoman. 

Mrs.  Bane,  feeling  the  critical  glances,  showed  the  vis- 
itors into  the  dining-room  and  said :  "  Shall  I  tell  Mr. 
Booke  you're  here?  " 

"  Yes,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Holten ;  "  we  want  to  see 
him." 

Mrs.  Bane  went  out,  wondering  what  was  the  matter. 

Mr.  Booke  was  not  long  in  making  his  appearance. 

He  was  wearing  a  black  cashmere  jacket  and  a  black 
apron  tied  at  the  waist,  his  gold  albert  showing  above  it. 
He  knew  there  was  something  serious  in  the  wind  from 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  sent  for  from  the  works,  a 
thing  his  sisters  would  not  have  done  for  nothing.  But  he 
refused  to  show  any  excitement  or  perturbation;  the 
Bookes  flattered  themselves  they  could  meet  a  crisis  with 
coolness. 

As  he  entered  the  room  he  said  almost  cheerily: 
"  Hello !  What's  brought  you  two  here  ?  " 

"  Some  family  business,"  said  Miss  Booke,  with  a  snap. 

"  Is  this  true  about  Tim?  "  asked  Mrs.  Holten. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  95 

"  I  can  perhaps  tell  you,"  he  replied  slowly,  "  if  you'll 
tell  me  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  It's  up  and  down  Canton  that  he's  walking  out,  en- 
gaged, if  you  like,  to  one  of  your  trimmers,"  Miss  Booke 
said,  as  if  she  were  making  a  charge. 

Timothy  smacked  his  lips,  looked  at  both  his  sisters 
for  a  very  brief  moment,  and  then  said  quietly :  "  Up 
and  down  Canton,  is  it?  "  He  was  keeping  himself  well 
in  hand,  for  his  sister,  Maria,  jarred  with  her  very  ag- 
gressive manner. 

Mrs.  Holten  spoke  more  tactfully :  "  They  say  he's 
carrying  on  with  Emmie  Bollins,  one  of  your  trimmers." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Oh-h.  .  .  .  Well.  .  .  .  And  what  about  it?" 

His  cool  attitude  annoyed  his  sisters.  Taking  it  like 
that!  .  .  . 

Miss  Booke  began :  "  Well !  "  But  Mrs.  Holten,  with 
a  little  more  insight  and  sense,  spoke  more  quietly.  She 
knew  the  folly  of  letting  temper  run  riot.  She  was  pre- 
pared to  speak  after  her  fashion,  but  her  greatest  desire 
was  to  achieve. 

"You're  not  backing  him  up,  Timothy,  are  you? 
After  all,  she  is  only  a  trimmer,  and  her  father's  a  shaper 
or  body-maker " 

"  And  a  poor  'un,  whatever  he  is,"  whipped  out  Miss 
Booke. 

"  I  didn't  say  I  was  backing  him  up,"  said  Timothy, 
still  speaking  very  quietly  and  deliberately. 

"  I  wish  you'd  say  what  you  think  of  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Holten.  "  Did  you  know  about  it  ?  " 

Timothy  hesitated. 

"  No,"  snapped  Miss  Booke. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "can't  you  give  Tim  a 
good  talking  to?  If  he's  walking  out  with  that  Emmie 


96  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Bollins  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  it  will  lead  to." 

Timothy  reached  for  his  pipe  and  tobacco  jar,  which 
stood  on  a  little  table  near  the  fireplace. 

"  Before  we  go  any  further,"  he  said,  "  suppose  I  hear 
what  you've  got  to  say,"  and  he  filled  his  pipe. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Booke  jerkily,  "I  should  think 
you've  heard  enough.  Tim's  walking  out  with  one  of 
your  trimmers.  Everybody  in  Ganton's  heard  about  it 
by  now.  He  was  with  her  in  Blackpool,  and  he's  going 
up  and  down  with  her.  They  were  seen  together  last 
night  in  Windmill  Lane." 

Timothy  lit  his  pipe  with  a  paper  spill,  which  he  took 
from  a  blue  and  white  jar  on  the  mantelshelf. 

His  sister  Maria  had  an  annoying  way. 

Mrs.  Holten,  equally  as  opposed  to  the  match  as  her 
sister,  was  at  the  same  time  more  tactful  in  dealing  with 
her  brother. 

"  It's  no  good  pretending,  Timothy,"  she  said,  "  that 
you'll  like  Tim  marrying  Emmie  Bollins,  any  more  than 
we  shall  —  perhaps  less.  We're  all  interested.  He's 
your  son,  but  he's  our  nephew.  It's  a  family  affair,  and 
I'm  prepared  to  do  what  I  can  to  stop  it." 

"  I  should  think  we  all  are,"  said  Miss  Booke,  sharply 
and  thoughtlessly. 

Thoughtlessly,  because  Timothy  stedfastly  refused  to 
be  browbeaten  and  driven. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said  quietly,  "  that  Tim'll  please 
himself  in  a  matter  o'  this  kind.  And,  er  .  .  .  I'm  not 
so  sure  he  won't  be  right." 

Miss  Booke  sat  up  and  looked  superbly  indignant. 

Mrs.  Holten  understood.  She  muttered  to  her  sister: 
"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  fast,  Maria.  You  surely 
can  see  you  can't  make  people  do  just  what  you  want." 

"  Make  them  do  it.     I  don't  want  to  make  anybody  do 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  97 

anything.  But  as  Tim's  aunt,  as  Miss  Booke,  at  any 
rate,  I've  a  right  to  have  my  say." 

"  You've  had  your  say,"  said  Timothy  sardonically. 

Mrs.  Holten  turned  to  her  brother. 

"  Now,  you  don't  want  Tim  to  marry  this  Emmie  Bol- 
lins,  do  you,  Timothy?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I've  said  anything  one  way  or  the 
other,"  he  replied  cannily. 

"  Well,  will  you?  "  snapped  Miss  Booke. 

"  I  will  —  when  it  pleases  me,"  and  he  puffed  away  at 
his  pipe  resolutely  and  stolidly. 

"  Now  come,  Timothy,"  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "  Can't 
we  all  see  what  we  can  do  to  help  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  want  any  help." 

"  That's  a  Booke  all  over,"  said  Miss  Booke,  knowing 
full  well  that  her  brother  was  now  merely  responding 
to  an  awkward  fit,  though  she  refused  to  see  that  she 
herself,  by  her  manner,  was  the  primary  cause  of  it. 

Mrs.  Holten  looked  troubled.  She  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing and  always  preferred  to  do  it  by  mastering,  if  she 
could,  but  she  had  a  good  supply  of  common  sense  in  her 
composition,  and  did  not  play  the  "  bull  in  the  china 
shop  "  as  her  sister  Maria  was  inclined  to  do.  Sophie 
might  have  had  more  weight  with  Timothy  than  Maria, 
she  thought.  .  .  . 

Her  face  was  drawn  and  she  looked  at  Timothy  who, 
by  now,  had  got  himself  behind  his  pipe,  so  to  speak,  with 
an  expression  of  immovability.  Jane  knew  that  attitude. 
Timothy  could  be  silent  for  hours  —  weeks  even,  if  he 
wished. 

Mrs.  Holten  nodded  her  head:  "Well,  Timothy,  it 
will  be  a  great  pity  if  Tim  does  do  anything  foolish  —  a 
great  pity.  It  isn't  as  if  there  was  others  in  the  family; 
he's  the  only  child.  .  .  ." 


98  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Timothy  continued  to  smoke  and  preserve  silence. 

Miss  Booke  had  now  set  her  face  as  if  she  had  to 
endure  things  —  and  would. 

Just  as  they  were  all  three  beginning  to  wonder  what 
was  going  to  happen  or  who  was  going  to  make  the  next 
move,  Tim,  himself,  came  in. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MR.  BOOKE  went  on  smoking  while  a  curious  ex- 
pression crept  over  his  face. 

Mrs.  Holten  darted  a  look  at  him,  and  fancied  she 
caught  concern  in  his  eyes.  She  smiled,  a  little  coldly, 
at  Tim. 

Miss  Booke,  sitting  very  straight  on  her  chair,  looked 
severe. 

"  Hello ! "  began  Tim,  and  saw  then  that  all  was  not 
of  a  roseate  hue.  He  knew  the  humours  of  his  rela- 
tions and  his  first  thought  was  there  was  a  difference  of 
sorts  between  his  father  and  his  aunts. 

He  took  off  his  black  apron,  rolled  it  up  and  put  it  in 
a  drawer  in  the  sideboard. 

Mrs.  Holten  saw  she  must  set  the  ball  rolling. 

"  What's  this  I  hear  about  you  and  Emmie  Bollins, 
Tim?  "  she  asked. 

Tim  looked  at  her. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you've  been  hearing,  Aunt  Jane." 

"  I  think  you  can  guess.  It's  going  about  that  you're 
walking  out  with  her." 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"Is  it  true?" 

"  I  reckon  it  is." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Booke,  "  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself,  Tim  Booke,  to  stand  there  and  coolly  tell 
your  family  that  you're  walking  out  with  one  of  your 
father's  trimmers!  Reckon  it  is,  eh.  ...  And  do  you 
mean  to  marry  her  ?  " 

Tim  flushed  a  little. 

99 


ioo  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  be  ashamed  of,"  he 
said. 

"  That  only  makes  it  worse,"  snapped  Miss  Booke. 

"  Oh.  .  .  ." 

"  You're  not  thinking  of  marrying  her,  are  you,  Tim?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Holten. 

"By  Gum!  This  is  a  bit  thick,  isn't  it?  I  didn't 
know  I  had  to  ask  my  aunts  to  choose  my  wife  for  me." 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  asking  your  aunts  to  choose 
your  wife  for  you,"  said  Miss  Booke  quickly;  "it's  a 
question  of  you  disgracing  your  family." 

"  I  say,  Aunt  Maria,  that's  putting  it  a  bit  strong,  isn't 
it?  Since  you  think  fit  to  talk  like  that,  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  when  I  marry  I  shan't  think  for  one 
minute  whether  my  aunts  will  approve  my  wife  or 
not " 

"  Tim,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  there's  your  father  .  .  . 
and  your  family.  You  ought  to  consider  them,  you 
know." 

"  Consider 'em.  .  .  .  Ay  —  but  how  much?" 

"  Well,  you  shouldn't  marry  any  one  they,  er  .  .  .  any 
one  that  isn't  your  equal." 

"  Equal  in  what  way  ?  " 

"  Position." 

"  Position."  He  laughed.  "  I  suppose  you  mean 
money.  It's  no  good  you  talking,  Aunt  Jane,  not  a  bit. 
When  I  marry,  I  shall  marry  the  woman  I  choose,  and 
I  shan't  think  of  position  or  anything  else." 

"  Selfishness,"  jerked  out  Miss  Booke. 

Tim  smiled. 

"  Selfishness.  ...  I  suppose  you'd  like  me  to  marry 
somebody  that  pleased  you,  somebody  with  position, 
whether  I  wanted  to  or  not;  rather  than  have  me  marry 
somebody  I  wanted  if  you  didn't  approve  of  her.  .  .  . 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  101 

I  think  we  might  leave  the  question  of  selfishness  out  of 
it." 

"  Your  father,  Tim,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

Tim  said  nothing. 

Mr.  Booke  was  still  silent  and  smoking. 

"What  about  him?"  asked  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  Well,"  said  Tim,  "  he  might  have  the  right  to  say 
something,  but  at  present  I  seem  to  hear  more  from  my 
aunts." 

"  We've  got  your  welfare  at  heart,  Tim,"  said  Mrs. 
Holten. 

"  I  think  we'll  drop  that,"  retorted  Tim  quickly. 
"  What  you've  really  got  at  heart  is  your  own  feelings. 
You'd  like  me  to  marry  somebody  you  can  boast  about  — 
your  nephew's  marrying  a  few  thousand  pounds,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind.  But  I'm  going  to  please  myself  — 
let's  take  that  as  settled." 

"  Oh !  dear !  dear !  dear !  Can't  you  see  the  disgrace 
for  the  family?  " 

"  No.  If  I'm  not  disgraced,  I  can't  see  how  the  fam- 
ily will  be." 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  him,  Timothy  ?  "  Miss 
Booke  said  suddenly  to  her  brother. 

Mr.  Booke  quietly  took  out  his  pipe. 

"  You  two  seem  to  be  managing  all  right." 

"  Managing  all  right,"  snapped  Miss  Booke.  "  We 
are  not  managing  at  all.  He's  as  obstinate  as  a  mule. 
He  can't  see  anybody's  view  but  his  own." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Booke  quietly.  "  And  you're  going 
the  right  way  to  make  him  obstinate.  I  don't  care  who 
she  is,  but  a  chap  as  wanted  to  marry  a  girl  would  be  a 
fool  to  give  her  up  because  two  of  his  aunts  started 
shouting  at  him." 

"  I'm  not  shouting,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 


102  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  And  neither  am  I,"  shrieked  Miss  Booke. 

"  Oh !  Well,  call  it  what  you  like  —  shouting,  nag- 
ging, jawing  —  it's  all  the  same.  You  know  what  I 
mean.  Any  young  chap  o'  spirit  would  refuse  to  be 
browbeaten  off  a  girl  if  he  only  half  wanted  her.  I  don't 
know  why  you  can't  think  of  other  folks'  feelings  now 
and  then " 

Miss  Booke  jumped  up. 

"  And  what  about  our  feelings  ?  " 

"  We  don't  want  to  browbeat  or  nag  or  anything," 
said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  and  you  know  that,  Timothy." 

"If  anybody  had  been  listening  to  you  since  you've 
been  here  he'd  have  thought  so,  at  any  rate,"  said  Timothy 
grimly. 

Tim,  who  had  been  getting  very  angry  towards  his 
aunts  for  their,  as  he  thought,  interference,  listened  to 
his  father  with  a  great  reassurance.  It  encouraged  him 
to  feel  angry  with  his  aunts,  but  made  him  feel  very  deeply 
drawn  to  his  father. 

"  Oh!  dear!  dear! "  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  It  seems  to  me  we  have  done  no  good  by  coming," 
said  Miss  Booke. 

"  That's  as  about  as  wise  a  thing  as  you've  said  since 
you've  been  here,  Maria,"  said  Timothy. 

"  Well  — "  began  Miss  Booke,  but  Mrs.  Holten,  who 
did  not  want  her  brother  and  sister  to  start  quarrelling, 
said  soothingly,  and  in  almost  a  pleading  voice :  "  Is 
it  really  true,  Tim,  that  you  are  walking  out  with  Emmie 
Bollins?" 

Tim  hesitated. 

"  When  I  mean  to  get  married,  the  first  person  I  shall 
tell  is  father." 

"  Then  you  haven't  made  up  your  mind  yet?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  that." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  103 

"  Have  you  ?  "  asked  Miss  Booke. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you,"  said  Tim  very  quietly,  al- 
most hotly. 

"  There ! .  .  .  There ! .  . .  From  Tim  Booke !     Well.  . . ." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  with  a  certain  amount 
of  resignation  in  her  voice,  "  it  means  that  you  have 
made  up  your  mind.  .  .  .  Dear !  dear !  .  .  .  Emmie  Bol- 
lins  .  .  .  her  father  a  body-maker,  or  something  of  the 
sort.  .  .  .  It'll  be  all  over  Canton.  .  .  .  What  will  they 
say?  Timothy  Booke's  son  marrying  one  of  his  father's 
trimmers." 

Timothy  got  up.     He  spoke  very  quietly. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  best,  Jane,"  he  said,  "  if  you  con- 
sidered this  topic  at  an  end.  Your  talk  —  neither  yours 
nor  Maria's  —  isn't  doing  a  ha'p'orth  o'  good.  In  fact, 
I  should  say  it's  the  other  way  about.  When  Tim's  going 
to  get  married  you'll  hear  about  it." 

"  You  might  as  well  talk  to  a  stump  as  talk  to  some 
people,"  said  Miss  Booke  —  a  common  remark  of  hers 
when  she  had  failed  to  convert  some  one  to  her  views. 

Mrs.  Holten  tried  suavity  and  a  little  advice.  She  said 
she  spoke  for  Tim's  good,  and  said  that  marrying  out 
of  one's  position  was  dangerous. 

But  Tim  regarded  the  reasons  as  preposterous  and  the 
interference  as  impertinent,  and  took  refuge  in  a  blank 
silence. 

The  two  ladies,  finding  they  did  no  good,  that  is  to  say, 
that  they  got  hold  of  nothing  definite  (though  each  per- 
suaded herself  she  really  had  gone  the  right  way  to  work, 
even  if  the  other  had  failed),  decided  to  go.  Mrs.  Hol- 
ten hoped  for  the  best,  hoped  the  family  wouldn't  have 
cause  for  regrets  over  anything  Tim  did,  reminded  Tim 
that  he  was  the  only  child  of  his  father  and  that  his  fam- 
ily —  all  the  members  of  it  —  had  a  right  to  look  to  him, 


104  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

for  a  line  of  conduct  that  would  never  bring  discredit  on 
them. 

Miss  Booke  said  curtly  she  hoped  he'd  learn  sense  be- 
fore he  was  much  older,  and  that  if  he  did  anything  stupid 
in  the  way  of  marrying  he'd  regret  it,  and  she  —  Miss 
Booke  —  would  take  care  to  let  any  woman  know  it,  who 
tried  to  drag  down  a  member  of  the  Booke  family  —  she 
would  that! 

When  Tim  and  his  father  were  alone  neither  spoke  for 
a  moment.  Tim  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  say  some- 
thing, but  found  a  difficulty  in  beginning.  He  postponed 
speech  —  said  to  himself  he  would  tell  his  father  later, 
and  was  going  out  of  the  room  when  Timothy  said, 
"  Tim." 

"  Yes,  Father." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Is  this  true?" 

"  Yes." 

Another  pause. 

"  I  think  you  might  have  told  me." 

"I  meant  to,  Father,"  said  Tim.  "I've.  .  .  .  It's. 
...  I  suppose  somebody's  seen  me  with  her,  and  so  it's 
all  over  Canton." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"Have  you  made  up  your  mind?" — this  from  the 
father. 

"  Yes." 

"  No  going  back  on  it?  " 

"  No." 

"  H'm.  .  .  There's  been  no  necessity  to  marry  her?" 

"  No.  No  fear.  If  I  died  to-morrow  or  left  her,  she 
could  marry  anybody ;  there's  nothing  of  that  sort." 

"  H'm.  I'm  glad  o'  that.  You  . . .  you  really  want  her?" 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  105 

"  Yes." 

"  Has  it  been  going  on  long?  " 

"  No.  ...  I  met  her  at  Belle  Vue  a  while  back,  and 
had  a  dance  with  her;  and,  er.  .  .  .  She's  all  right,  Fa- 
ther. She's  sensible,  and  I  should  think  a  good  worker. 
She'll  make  me  a  better  wife  than  many  a  one  as  these 
aunts  of  mine  'ud  have  picked  out  for  me." 

"  Ay.  .  .  .  Ay.  .  .  .  Only,  after  all,  she  is  one  of  our 
trimmers.  Well,  it's  your  affair;  you're  marrying  her, 
not  me.  I  can't  say  as  I  approve ;  but  then,  I  shan't  dis- 
approve. I'm  not  going  out  of  my  way  to  be  over-pleas- 
ant to  her  —  you're  marrying  her,  not  me.  If  she  does 
all  right,  well,  we'll  see.  Only,  whoever  it  is,  I  shall 
keep  my  word,  Tim." 

"  In  what  way,  Father?  " 

"  When  you  marry,  the  works  will  be  yours  —  and  this 
house." 

"Oh!    But " 

"  That's  settled.  I  didn't  think  your  wife  would  be 
one  of  our  trimmers;  but  that'll  make  no  difference  to 
my  word;  a  promise  is  a  promise.  Only  .  .  .  well,  I 
hope  she'll  be  a  good  wife  and  that  you'll  be  happy  —  if 
you  do  marry  her." 

"  Thanks.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  Father.  I,  er.  .  .  ." 
Tim  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  say  a  great  deal:  as  if 
there  were  certain  emotions  he  would  like  to  lay  bare 
before  his  father;  but  it  was  very  difficult.  He  could 
not  describe,  with  any  ease,  the  particular  emotions  he 
had  towards  Emmie  or  towards  his  father,  even  at  that 
moment.  He  was  disturbed  by  his  father's  generosity; 
it  seemed  extravagant  in  comparison  with  his  aunts' 
attitudes.  He  hesitated.  After  all,  he  had  said  thanks. 
He  managed  to  mutter :  "  I  think  she'll  be  all  right, 


106  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Father.  ...  I,  er.  ...  I  hope  you'll  be  satisfied.  I 
don't,  er "  He  was  uncomfortable. 

"  That's  all  right,  lad.  I  only  want  you  to  be  happy," 
said  Timothy.  And  he,  too,  hesitated,  as  if  he  would 
like  to  say  more;  like,  perhaps,  to  say  something  really 
feeling  about  his  affection  for  his  son,  but  he  found  it 
too  difficult. 

They  both  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  feeling  awkward 
and  very  desirous,  somehow,  of  expressing  a  delicate 
sensation.  But  neither  could  find  words.  They  felt 
things  they  could  not  discuss.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Booke  suddenly  said :  "  That's  all.  I  reckon  you 
want  to  get  out.  Did  you  lock  up  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Father." 

And  then  Tim  went  out. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THOUGH  Mr.  Booke  could  not  regard  his  son's  ac- 
tions with  a  kindly  eye,  he  did  not  necessarily  bring 
Emmie  Bollins  within  the  pale  of  his  indulgence. 

Mr.  Booke  had  really  some  of  the  feelings  of  his  sis- 
ters. He  had  wanted  his  son  to  do  well,  and  one  of  the 
ways  of  "doing  well"  was  to  marry  well;  hence,  this 
engagement  to  Emmie  Bollins  was  of  a  nature  to  dis- 
appoint him.  He  could  forgive  his  son  and  wish  him 
well,  but  he  had  still  a  kind  of  secret  desire  to  see  Emmie 
castigated  in  some  way  for  having  come  across  Tim's 
path.  He  would  do  nothing  to  thwart  his  son's  happi- 
ness, but  neither  would  he  stretch  out  a  hand  to  help 
Emmie. 

She  trimmed  as  usual,  and  when  Timothy  met  her  he 
nodded  curtly  or  passed  her  by. 

She  took  it  very  calmly.  She  was  engaged ;  she  knew 
Tim  was  in  love  with  her  and  meant  to  marry  her;  she 
could  face  the  others.  Not  that  she  had  much  chance 
before  marriage,  for  Miss  Booke  and  Mrs.  Holten  par- 
ticularly wanted  to  impress  on  her  (by  a  cold-shouldering 
behaviour)  the  ostracism  she  had  earned  for  herself  by 
worming  her  way  into  the  Booke  family,  and  consequently 
she  received  no  invitations  to  the  homes  of  these  ladies. 

They  had  gnashed  their  teeth  and  raged  together,  but 
to  the  outside  world  they  put  on  quite  a  pleasant  face. 
Tim's  engagement.  .  .  .  Oh!  well,  they  understood  Miss 
Bollins  was  a  good  worker,  would  make  him  probably 
a  good  wife,  and  it  was,  perhaps,  as  well  he  had  not  lost 
his  heart  to  a  doll.  Besides,  she  was  really  very  attrac- 

107 


io8  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

tive  —  everybody  had  to  admit  that.  And  money  wasn't 
everything!  .  .  . 

Privately,  the  Booke  ladies  (Mrs.  Grass  the  least)  let 
their  tongues  wag  in  full.  Emmie's  ears  must  have 
needed  horrible  scratching  at  times,  if  it  be  really  true 
that  our  ears  do  itch  when  we  are  being  attacked  over 
tea  cups  —  or  anywhere,  for  that  matter. 

Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  gave  Tim  the  cold  shoul- 
der to  some  extent.  If  they  met,  they  never  asked  about 
Emmie,  or  if  they  mentioned  her  or  the  prospective  mar- 
riage, they  did  so  with  a  gibe  or  a  sneer.  "  I  suppose 
Mrs.  Bollins  will  have  her  house  full  of  guests  at  the 
wedding,  Tim.  .  .  ."  Or,  "  I  should  like  to  see  Emmie 
Bollins'  bottom  drawer.  ...  I  don't  suppose  Sam  Bol- 
lins has  a  decent  suit  to  wear.  .  .  ."  "  Emmie  Bollins' 
friends  will  make  a  good  show  at  the  wedding,"  et  cetera. 

Tim  had  not  got  his  father's  temper,  which  could  blaze 
on  occasions;  he  was  mild,  and  kept  things  well  focused, 
as  a  rule.  When  his  aunts  tried  sarcasm,  he  either  ig- 
nored it  or  retorted  in  kind,  but  never  spoke  in  the  fury 
of  passion. 

He  did  not  wear  down  these  aunts  of  his,  because  a 
certain  fierce  obstinate  pride  seemed  almost  vital  to  their 
natures ;  but,  at  least,  he  let  them  clearly  understand  that 
nothing  they  said  or  did  would  turn  him  from  his  inten- 
tion of  marrying  Emmie  Bollins. 

The  inevitability  galled  them.  When  they  met  they 
discussed  Tim  and  Emmie.  They  said  sharp  things  to 
Timothy,  but  though  he  tolerated  some,  he  let  them  know 
there  were  limits  they  must  not  pass.  He  did  not  approve 
of  Emmie;  he  would  rather  Tim  had  chosen  elsewhere; 
but  Timothy  loved  his  son  and  did  not  intend  that  a 
daughter-in-law  should  snap  that  link  of  affection. 

Of  course,  people  in  Ganton  talked,  and  the  Bookes 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  109 

had  to  put  up  with  the  acid-like  remarks,  the  neatly  turned 
commiseration,  the  surprised  "  A  trimmer,  isn't  she  ?  " 
.  .  .  But  these  remarks  only  really  came  from  a  few, 
although  to  the  female  Bookes  it  sounded  as  if  the  whole 
world  whispered  them.  Ganton,  in  general,  did  not 
bother  its  head  about  the  business  at  all.  Ganton,  that 
knew  by  sight  or  hearing,  Tim  and  Emmie,  smiled,  per- 
haps, and  added :  "  She's  doing  well ;  he  might  have 
done  worse."  When  hat  manufacturers'  wives  cleaned 
and  cooked  and  managed  houses  without  maids,  it  seemed 
gratuitous  to  attempt  to  sneer  at  a  "  trimmer."  But  then 
the  Bookes  were  inclined  to  arrogance  and  when  thwarted, 
very  bitter  with  the  tongue. 

Emmie  and  Tim  took  matters  calmly.  Letters  never 
passed  between  them;  there  was  no  need.  Emmie  went 
to  work  as  was  her  wont  in  the  trimming-room  of  T. 
Booke  &  Son,  and  walked  out  on  certain  evenings  with 
the  soon-to-be  sole  possessor  of  that  hat  factory.  They 
walked  down  semi-quiet  lanes,  where  he  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist  and  kissed  her  and  assumed  an  attitude 
of  grave  circumspection  when  other  people  appeared  on 
the  scene. 

There  were  no  formal  introductions.  Tim  merely 
meant  to  marry  Emmie,  and  with  a  practical  directness 
said  to  himself  that  fact  did  not  mean  that  he  had  to  go 
hob-nobbing  with  Sam  Bollins,  her  father,  or  with  her 
mother  or  her  sister. 

But  Emmie,  after  a  few  months  of  engagement,  felt 
that  he  really  ought  to  call.  After  all,  he  passed,  and  on 
one  occasion,  seeing  Mrs.  Bollins  at  the  door,  he  had 
stopped  and  said :  "  Emmie  in  ?  " 

"  She's  just  gone  to  the  grocer's,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins, 
who  wanted  to  be  very  pleasant  and  amiable,  and  yet  not 
obsequious,  to  her  prospective  son-in-law. 


no  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Oh !  .  .  .  Gone  cold,  hasn't  it  ?  Are  you  keeping 
well?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Tim,  thank  you.  Will  you  come  in  a  min- 
ute? We're  upset  a  bit,  but,  er " 

"  No.  No  —  no,  thanks.  Some  other  day.  Tell 
Emmie  I'll  be  ready  in  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  will 
you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  G'night." 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Tim." 

And  Mrs.  Bollins  was  quite  excited  over  this  little  con- 
versation with  the  man  who  was  about  to  marry  her 
daughter.  For  one  thing,  it  showed  his  straight,  plain- 
forward  dealing;  he  was  walking  out  with  Emmie,  and 
made  no  pretence  to  hide  things  or  cover  them  up.  A 
nice  young  fellow,  too.  .  .  .  He  said  he'd  come  in  some 
other  day.  Of  course,  he  was  probably  in  a  hurry 
now.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bollins  felt  unduly  elated;  she  seemed  drawn  in 
the  circle  of  the  Booke  family  herself.  The  engagement 
no  longer  concerned  Emmie  alone.  She  walked  across 
the  road  to  Mrs.  Cross. 

"  Just  had  Emmie's  young  man  calling  on  me." 

"Oh!     Mr.  Booke?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes.  Very  nice  he  is,  too.  They're  going  out  to- 
gether, and  he  just  come  and  had  a  little  chat  with  me." 

"  Your  Emmie's  doing  well  there." 

"  Yes.     I  tell  her  that.  .  .  .  She'll  manage  all  right." 

When  Emmie  came  home,  Mrs.  Bollins  said: 
"  Er.  .  .  ."  (She  was  boggling  at  the  style  of  address.) 
"  Mr.  Tim's  been." 

"  Oh !  "  Emmie  was  pleased  and  surprised.  "  What 
did  he  want?" 

"  He  just  had  a  few  words  with  me ;  he  was  passing, 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  111 

that  was  all.  He  said  he'd  be  ready  in  three  quarters  of 
an  hour." 

"Oh!  ...  Did  he  ask  you  to  tell  me?" 

"  Yes." 

Emmie  was  still  further  pleased.  The  fact  that  Tim 
had  practically  told  her  mother  he  was  preparing  to  meet 
her  and  was  obviously  thinking  about  her  —  although  a 
commonplace  to  her  (Emmie) —  was  very  gratifying.  It 
emphasised  her  engagement.  Mr.  Timothy  Booke, 
Junior,  calling  at  her  house  to  leave  a  message  that  he 
was  anticipating  a  meeting  ministered  to  her  pride  in  her 
position. 

"  I  suppose  he  didn't  say  much,"  she  said,  really  de- 
siring to  learn,  if  possible,  every  word  he  had  uttered. 

"  No  —  we  just  talked."  Mrs.  Bollins  wished  to  mag- 
nify her  own  part  in  the  short  colloquy.  She  did  not 
wish  her  daughter  to  think  that  Mr.  Tim  only  regarded 
her  (Emmie)  with  respect;  she  too  could  talk  to  Mr.  Tim 
easily  enough.  .  .  . 

The  engagement  kept  on  its  even  course  until  the  next 
summer,  when  Tim  said  to  his  father: 

"  Oh!  .  .  .  Emmie  and  I  are  thinking  of  getting  mar- 
ried, Father,  this  Wakes." 

"  Oh-h.  .  .  ." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  I  reckon  you've  both  made  up  your  minds,"  said  Mr. 
Booke,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes.  We're  not  to  a  week  or  two,  for  that  matter, 
if  there's  any  reason  why  the  Wakes  wouldn't  suit." 

Mr.  Booke  nodded  his  head. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  he  said.  He  smacked  his 
lips. 

"  What,  er  .  .  ."  began  Tim. 


112  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  I  was  thinking  of  her.  .  .  .  Well,  you've  seen  enough 
of  one  another  by  now  to  know  your  own  minds.  Are 
you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  I  am.  Quite.  There's  nobody  else  I  know  as  I'd 
put  in  the  same  street  with  Emmie,"  said  Tim,  with  some 
little  feeling,  as  if  he  owed  Emmie  and  his  own  feelings 
so  much  and  would  pay  the  debt. 

"  H'm.  ...  I  hope  she'll  make  you  a  good  wife,  my 
lad.  I've  nothing  against  her.  I'm  not  going  to  make 
a  fuss  of  her  till  I  see  how  she  behaves  —  and  perhaps 
not  then.  But  I'll  give  her  a  chance.  .  .  .  Your  aunts 
don't  like  her." 

"  They're  not  marrying  her." 

"  No.  But  they're  part  of  the  family,  and  you'll  meet 
now  and  again.  However,  if  you've  made  up  your  mind, 
we'll  call  it  settled.  This'll  be  your  home." 

"Oh!     But " 

Mr.  Booke  waved  his  hand. 

"  No.  I  keep  my  word.  I'm  going  to  retire.  I  hope 
Emmie'll  stand  by  you  and  do  her  best  to  help  you  and 
remember  the  firm.  This  house  will  be  yours  and  the 
business.  I  shall  come  when  I  like,  poke  my  nose  in 
what  I  want,  and  say  what  I  like  —  but  it'll  be  all  yours 
—  I'll  see  Stevens  and  fix  it  up.  ...  This  Wakes,  eh  ? 

"  Well.  .  .  .  H'm.  I  don't  suppose  Sam  Bollins  has 
anything  to  spend  on  a  wedding " 

"  I'll  see  to  that,"  interrupted  Tim. 

"See  to  what?" 

"  I'll  let  'im  have  something.  Besides,  we  shall  have 
a  quiet  wedding;  we  want  no  fuss." 

Timothy  shook  his  head. 

"  Nay,  nay,  lad.  No  hole-in-the-corner  business ; 
there's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  And  you're  the  only 
one,  you  know." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  113 

"  But  we'd  rather,  Father;  we  want  no  fuss." 

"  You  needn't  have  any  fuss.  I  reckon  invitations  can 
be  sent  out  in  my  name  as  well  as  the  Bollins' —  and  I'll 
pay.  You  can  get  married  at  Christ  Church,  and  I'll 
take  the  guests  to  Marple  or  somewhere,  and  give  'em  a 
feed  and  a  drive.  We'll  fix  up  summat.  I,  er.  .  .  . 
Emmie  is  a  good-looking  wench." 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  You've  perhaps  made  a  good  choice,  Tim.  ...  I 
don't  know.  At  any  rate,  we  shall  see." 

"  She's  all  right,  Father.  She  suits  me,  and  what  does 
it  matter  about  money?  I've  enough." 

"  The  money's  all  right." 

When  the  details  of  the  wedding  came  to  be  discussed, 
the  Booke  ladies  found  they  had  a  great  deal  to  say.  A 
great  deal  of  what  they  said  was  irrelevant;  it  did  not 
help  on  the  arguments  at  all.  "  Imagine  Emmie  Bollins 
having  a  wedding  like  this!  Never  dreamt  of  this  in 
all  her  days!  .  .  .  Two  big  fat  folk  would  just  about 
fill  that  kitchen  of  hers  —  have  they  a  scullery?  .  .  ." 
"  Salmon  mayonnaise.  ...  I  don't  suppose  the  Bollins 
lot  have  ever  heard  of  it;  they'll  probably  want  to  eat  it 
with  a  spoon!  .  .  .  ." 

Such  remarks  as  those  did  not  settle  anything  really, 
but  they  gave  Miss  Booke  and  Mrs.  Holten  a  certain  re- 
lief and  Mrs.  Grass  some  amusement,  which  was  promptly 
criticised  by  Miss  Booke,  declared  the  occasion  to  be  "  no 
laughing  matter."  She  could  scarcely  understand  how  a 
Booke  could  look  pleasant  at  such  a  time. 

And  yet  this  wedding  had  to  be  a  creditable  affair. 
The  Bookes  were  mixed  up  in  it  and  their  pride  insisted 
on  the  thing  being  well  done.  Timothy  sat  and  smoked 


114  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

and  made  suggestions  and  offered  criticisms,  but  he  knew 
that  his  sisters,  however  bitter  of  tongue,  were  at  least 
very  capable  of  organisation  and  that  the  wedding  ar- 
rangements, if  left  to  them,  would  be  satisfactory.  He 
said  he  would  foot  the  bill  and  he  could  trust  them  to 
make  the  required  show,  to  see  everything  was  of  the 
best  and  also  to  see  there  was  no  waste.  ' 

And  these  Booke  ladies  were  very  proud  of  their  ar- 
rangements. They  wanted  the  guests,  after  the  wedding, 
to  feel  they  had  never  been  to  a  better  managed  affair  — 
even  if  Emmie  Bollins  were  the  bride.  And  what  was 
more,  they  would  loose  their  bitter  tongues  on  anybody 
who  criticised  Emmie  adversely;  they  reserved  that  par- 
ticular function  for  themselves. 

At  the  beginning  of  July  (the  wedding  being  fixed  for 
the  first  week  in  August),  Timothy  said  to  his  son: 
"  Hadn't  you  better  bring  Emmie  in  to  supper  one  night  ? 
Or  let  her  come  and  have  dinner  and  meet  your  aunts 
here  next  Sunday." 

"  I'll  tell  her,"  said  Tim. 

"  Sunday  will  be  best,"  said  Mr.  Booke.  "  She  can 
have  dinner  and  you  can  sit  in  the  garden  and  do  what 
you  like  till  tea  time,  and  your  uncles  and  aunts'll  be  here 
after  church.  It's  about  time  they  met.  I  think  we 
might  have  'em  all  here,  for  that  matter." 

"  I'll  tell  her,"  said  Tim. 

Emmie  was  very  pleased  at  the  invitation,  and  the  fact 
that  it  was  for  dinner,  tea  and  supper,  gave  it  a  family 
ring  in  her  ears.  It  was  much  more  friendly  than  a 
simple  invitation  to  tea  or  supper.  Evidently  Mr.  Booke 
regarded  the  engaged  with  a  benevolent  eye,  and  was 
inclined  to  be  sympathetic. 

Emmie  nodded. 

"You'll  come?"  he  asked. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  115 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  You'd  like  me  to." 

"  Yes.  We  can  go  for  a  walk  in  the  afternoon  —  or 
after  tea,  for  that  matter,  and  get  back  for  supper. 
They'll  all  be  there  for  supper." 

Emmie  looked  at  him. 

"All  .  .  .  who's  all?" 

"Uncle  Tom  and  Aunt  Jane,  Uncle  Fred  and  Aunt 
Sophia,  and  Aunt  Maria  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holten  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grass,  and  my  aunt  that  lives  down  Man- 
chester Road." 

"MissBooke?" 

"  Yes." 

Emmie  was  silent.  It  was  a  family  affair!  All  that 
lot.  .  .  .  They  wanted  to  have  a  proper  look  at  her,  eh  ? 
.  .  .  She  thought  of  her  clothes  at  once.  She  had  the 
new  summer  dress;  it  was  good  enough.  And  she'd  got 
a  new  underskirt  —  and  a  new  pair  of  stockings,  too. 
She  didn't  mind;  she  was  as  good-looking  as  any  of  that 
lot.  .  .  .  And  wouldn't  they  watch  her?  She'd  have  to 
mind  her  p's  and  q's  .  .  .  but  what  did  it  matter  ?  They 
could  say  what  they  liked;  she  was  marrying  Tim,  not 
them 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  "  Tim  asked  her. 

"  Nothing." 

He  gave  a  little  laugh,  knowing  that  "  something  "  was 
nearer  the  mark. 

"  Some  of  those  aunts  of  mine  can  say  things,"  he 
said. 

"What  sort  of  things?"  said  Emmie  quickly. 

"All  sorts  —  if  they  think  they  can  cut  you  a  bit." 

Emmie  was  silent.  She  knew  the  reputation  of  the 
Booke  family..  She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  ...  If 
they  started  cutting  at  her.  .  .  .  Well,  two  could  play  at 
that  game. 


ii6  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Don't  let  them  say  cheeky  things  to  you,"  said  Tim, 
as  if  he  guessed  what  she  was  thinking  about.  "  They 
try  it  on  me,  but  I  just  take  no  notice  or  hit  back." 

"  Why  should  they  want  to  say  cheeky  things  to  me  ?  " 
asked  Emmie. 

"  Ask  me  another.     Why  does  a  duck  swim?  " 

"  I'm  as  good  as  them,"  said  Emmie,  after  a  pause,  the 
words  coming  out  in  spite  of  herself,  in  a  kind  of  fierce 
resentment  and  bravado. 

Tim  looked  round.  They  were  in  a  bend  of  the  lane 
with  no  one  near.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  kissed 
her. 

"  You're  a  jolly  sight  better,  Emmie." 

She  looked  at  him,  both  gratefully  and  lovingly,  as  she 
pushed  her  hair  back  under  her  hat. 

Emmie  was  certainly  well  dressed  when  she  went  to 
dinner  to  Mr.  Booke's  on  the  Sunday.  She  had  a  nat- 
ural taste  for  the  suitable  and  effective,  and  her  face  and 
figure  could  have  withstood  many  a  shrieking  garment. 
Her  only  trouble  was  creaky  boots.  But  that,  she  im- 
agined, couldn't  be  helped;  everybody's  boots  creaked 
when  they  were  new  —  so  she  imagined.  She  remem- 
bered hearing  the  Rev.  John  O' Kelly's  creaking  tremen- 
dously in  church  one  morning,  and  after  that,  she  seemed 
to  fancy  noisy  boots  were  in  some  way  sacred,  like  sur- 
plices. 

Mr.  Booke,  by  this  time  softened  towards  his  pros- 
pective daughter-in-law,  and  philosophically  (meaning 
sensibly)  facing  the  inevitable  in  such  a  way  as  to  get 
the  best  out  of  the  marriage,  was  prepared  to  greet  her 
in  a  very  friendly  manner. 

Mrs.  Bane  had  taken  extra  care  with  the  plain,  but 
substantial  and  wholesome  dinner,  and  was  really  curious 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  117 

to  see  this  Emmie  Bollins  that  was  going  to  marry  Mr. 
Tim. 

But  the  restrained  and  almost  dignified  curiosity  at 
Helston  House  was  nothing  to  the  excitement  that  pre- 
vailed at  the  Bollins'. 

Sarah  Bollins  had  wondered  more  than  a  little  if  Mr. 
Tim  were  playing  with  her  sister;  she  took  some  time 
and  had  some  difficulty  in  believing  that  Emmie  had  won 
Mr.  Tim  whole-heartedly.  She  watched  the  walkings-out 
with  a  keen  interest,  not  unalloyed  by  some  fears.  She 
had  been  surprised  at  the  news  when  she  first  heard  it, 
and  there  were  occasions  when  she  was  not  altogether 
happy  at  Emmie's  calm  assurance  of  remarkable  fortune, 
but  she  was  now  most  anxious  that  the  affair  should 
not  collapse.  She  had  spoken  of  her  sister's  young  man, 
Mr.  Tim  Booke,  son  of  Mr.  Booke  of  Booke  &  Son,  so 
frequently,  that  she  was  very  anxious  to  be  able  to  speak 
of  her  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Booke  of  Booke  &  Son.  And 
if  anything  happened  to  prevent  that  becoming  a  reality 
Sarah  felt  she  would  lose  the  something  she  had  recently 
gathered  round  her  on  account  of  her  sister's  engage- 
ment. 

Mr.  Bollins  had  suggested  to  his  wife  he  should  wear 
two  shirts  a  week  now,  and  every  now  and  then  he  hinted 
to  his  wife  that  Emmie's  marriage  would  be  a  good  thing 
for  them. 

Mrs.  Bollins  quite  agreed  about  the  good  thing  and  said 
it  would  be  only  right  and  proper.  She  also  commended 
the  idea  about  the  shirts,  only  as  Sam  Bollins  had  only 
two,  the  idea  had  to  be  waived  for  practical  reasons. 

There  was,  consequently,  a  kind  of  keen  watchfulness 
pervading  the  Bollins  family  in  relation  to  Emmie. 
Some  things  could  scarcely  be  repressed  openly  —  par- 
ticularly the  fears.  If  Emmie  were  not  out  with  Tim 


n8  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

on  some  usually  engaged  evening  there  were  very  anx- 
ious looks,  and  one  or  the  other  of  the  family  ( frequently 
more  than  one)  said  to  Emmie:  "Not  going  out  with 
him  to-night" 

Emmie's  reply: 

"  No,  he's  got  something  on  —  a  billiard  match  at  the 
club,"  reassured  them.  They  understood  billiard  matches 
and  clubs. 

But  a  thin  atmosphere  of  uneasiness  seemed  to  hang 
over  the  household  till  Emmie  had  been  out  again  with 
Mr.  Tim  to  reassure  them  all. 

No  wonder  this  invitation  to  dinner  gave  them  im- 
mense satisfaction. 

"  Going  to  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins,  looking  at  her 
daughter  in  a  sort  of  wonderment. 

Sarah  said :  "  About  time,  too."  This  great  fuss  of 
Emmie  at  home  was  not  always  to  her  liking. 

Mr.  Bollins  nodded;  he  was  naturally  elated. 

"  Now,  take  care  and  behave  yourself  well.  Don't  put 
your  knife  in  your  mouth  —  remember  that." 

Emmie  smiled.  She  was  wondering  herself  if  there 
would  be  any  little  pitfalls  at  the  table. 

"  I  expect  they'll  use  serviettes,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins. 
"  And  being  Sunday,  they'll  all  be  clean.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
they'll  be  nicely  done  up.  ...  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Bane 
goes  in  for  that  sort  of  thing?  " 

"  Now,  mind  what  I  say,"  said  Mr.  Bollins.  "  Don't 
put  your  knife  in  your  mouth." 

Emmie  said :  "  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  how  to 
behave  myself  ?  " 

Mr.  Bollins  shook  his  head. 

"  You  should  do,  my  girl ;  you  should  do.  But  take 
notice:  don't  put  your  knife  in  your  mouth." 

"  They'll  have  their  vegetables  in  dishes,"  said  Mrs. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  119 

Bollins,  trying  to  picture  the  table.  "  And  some  folk, 
I  believe,  pass  the  vegetables  to  you  and  ask  you  to  help 
yourself." 

"  I  don't  like  that,"  said  Sarah  quickly.  "  I'm  always 
afraid  to  take  enough  that  way." 

"You'll  be  all  right  with  that,"  said  Mr.  Bollins. 
"  You  needn't  worry  about  that.  If  I  had  a  chance,  I 
could  show  you.  I  don't  care  whether  they  pass  you 
dishes  or  help  you.  .  .  .  But,  remember  what  I've  told 
you :  don't  put  your  knife  in  your  mouth." 

Sarah  laughed. 

"  You  would  look  funny,  Emmie,  if  you  cut  yourself, 
wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  One  would  think  I  had  just  come  out  of  the  back- 
woods, from  the  way  you  talk,"  said  Emmie,  and  she 
went  upstairs  to  look  at  some  of  the  things  she  was  going 
to  wear.  At  any  rate,  she  meant  to  go  decently  dressed. 

On  the  Saturday  evening  she  had  a  bath.  She  felt 
that  nothing  should  be  left  to  chance.  Suppose  she  met 
with  an  accident ;  broke  her  leg,  for  instance,  and  had  to 
be  put  to  bed  at  Helston  House.  .  .  . 

So  the  rest  of  the  family  went  to  bed  and  left  her  up 
to  wash  in  a  zinc  hip  bath,  placed  in  front  of  the  kitchen 
fire. 


CHAPTER  X 

EMMIE  had  to  go  through  a  mental  ordeal  before  she 
could  make  up  her  mind  which  door  she  ought  to 
knock  at.  She  was  so  anxious  not  to  do  the  wrong  thing 
that  she  began  to  feel  there  was  a  right  and  wrong  door. 
If  she  went  to  the  front,  she  might  be  accused  of  "  putting 
it  on  " —  she,  who  went  regularly  to  work  in  the  trim- 
ming-room at  the  rear!  —  and  if  she  went  to  the  back 
door  they  might  think  she  was  trying  to  be  too  familiar 
and  that  it  wasn't  the  proper  thing  for  a  visitor  to  do. 
And  then  her  common  sense  came  to  the  rescue  — "  As  if 
a  thing  like  a  door  mattered."  To  be  followed  almost  at 
once  with  the  hint:  but  Miss  Booke,  eh.  ...  And  Mrs. 
Holten.  .  .  . 

Emmie  went  to  the  side  door  in  Davy  Street  as  a  com- 
promise. 

Tim  opened  the  door. 

"  Found  your  way,  then?  "  he  said,  smiling. 

"Of  course,  I  had  to  ask,"  she  replied,  with  quick 
humour. 

He  looked  round.  There  was  nobody  about.  He 
kissed  her. 

"  They'll  hear,"  she  whispered  —  hoping  they  would. 

"  That  will  make  a  difference,"  he  said,  looking  happy. 
"  I  don't  know  what  you'll  do  with  your  hat  and 
things " 

Just  then  Mrs.  Bane  appeared,  and  Emmie  at  once  be- 
gan to  wonder  if  she  should  shake  hands  with  her  or 
not.  Left  to  herself  she  would  not  only  have  shaken 
hands  but  have  kissed  the  smiling  housekeeper,  only  — 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  121 

well,  she  had  to  keep  that  knife  out  of  her  mouth,  and 
she  meant  so  to  behave  that  no  nasty  remarks  should  be 
said  about  her. 

Mrs.  Bane  nodded  very  pleasantly :  "  Miss  Bollins  — 
good  morning." 

Emmie  said  "  Good  morning,"  and  looked  a  little  timid, 
but  had  also  a  friendly  air.  "  Another  nice  morning, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Yes.  But  at  this  time  of  the  year  we  ought  to  be 
having  nice  weather.  Will  you  come  upstairs?  You 
can  take  your  hat  off  in  the  spare  room." 

Emmie  followed  Mrs.  Bane  upstairs,  and  was  at  once 
struck  with  the  difference  between  her  house  and  this. 
As  she  put  her  foot  on  the  stairs  carpet  she  thought  at 
once  of  that  worn-out  oilcloth  that  made  a  pretence  of 
covering  their  stairs.  .  .  .  And  these  brass  rods.  .  .  . 
And  the  space  there  was  on  the  landing.  .  .  .  And  the 
rooms  —  what  a  lot !  .  .  . 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Bane,  when  she  was  in  the  bed- 
room with  Emmie,  "  you'll  be  getting  married  soon." 

"Soon  —  we're  thinking  about  the  Wakes." 

"And  very  nice,  too.  .  .  .  Well,  I  wish  you  luck. 
Mr.  Tim's  a  gentleman.  Where  are  you  going  to  live  ?  " 

"  Er.  .  .  .  Oh !  We  haven't  settled  everything  yet," 
said  Emmie,  with  swift  tactfulness. 

"  No.  There's  such  a  lot  to  be  thought  of  at  a  time 
like  this.  Well,  I  must  get  back  to  the  dinner;  mustn't 
let  that  spoil.  If  you  want  anything,  just  ask.  You  can 
put  your  hat  on  the  bed,  and  you'll  find  your  way  down- 
stairs all  right." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Emmie.  "  Don't  you  wait.  Thank 
you  very  much." 

When  Mrs.  Bane  had  left  her,  Emmie  at  once  began 
to  take  stock  of  things  in  the  room.  The  bed,  with  the 


122  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

beautiful  spread  on  it,  made  her  screw  up  her  hands  in 
an  emotion  of  delighted  wonder.  There  was  a  carpet 
all  over  the  floor,  a  hearth  rug  and  a  brass  fender  and 
fire-irons,  with  a  little  Japanese  screen  in  front  of  the 
fireplace.  Between  the  two  windows  there  was  a  dress- 
ing-table, with  a  fine  swinging  mirror  in  the  middle  and 
two  oblong  mirrors  at  the  sides.  Emmie  had  no  idea 
of  the  particular  kind  of  furniture;  she  could  not  tell 
the  difference  between  Chippendale  and  Sheraton,  and 
rosewood  and  mahogany  were  almost  the  same  to  her. 
But  she  felt  expense  in  the  room:  luxuries,  things  that 
only  people  with  money  can  afford.  .  .  .  She  noted  the 
large  wardrobe  with  the  panel  mirrors,  and  looked  at  her- 
self in  both  of  them  and  felt  that  those  mirrors  had  not 
reflected  many  better  looking  than  herself,  though  she 
thought  it  —  who  shouldn't.  She  had  no  time  to  view 
the  pictures,  for  she  was  afraid  they  would  be  wondering 
downstairs  what  she  was  doing  —  perhaps  think  she  was 
taking  things !  .  .  . 

Tim  was  waiting  in  the  hall. 

"  You  might  as  well  come  in  the  dining-room,"  he  said. 
"  Dinner  will  be  ready  soon." 

Mr.  Booke  was  sitting  in  a  big  easy  chair,  reading  the 
local  weekly  newspaper,  when  Emmie  entered.  He  low- 
ered his  paper  and  nodded. 

"We.  .  .  .  Found  your  way  in  all  right?" 

Emmie  was  not  sure  whether  he  would  want  to  shake 
hands  or  not.  He  sat  up  and  looked  agreeable,  but  made 
no  attempt  at  any  ceremonial  greeting.  Emmie  was  glad, 
for  it  made  her  path  a  little  easier.  It  was  the  uncom- 
mon things  that  tried  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  sit  you  down  and  make  yourself  at  home.  You 
might  as  well  start." 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  123 

Emmie  sat  down  and  felt  a  little  awkward.  She  was 
not  much  troubled,  for  the  genuinely  pretty  woman  has 
a  confidence  in  herself;  but  Emmie  did  not  want  to  make 
any  false  steps.  She  looked  at  Tim.  There  was  a  si- 
lence. 

Mr.  Booke  said  sharply,  but  not  harshly :  "  How  old 
are  you,  Emmie?  " 

"  Twenty-two." 

"  H'm.  You  look  older  than  that.  I  suppose  you're 
old  enough  to  get  married." 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Ay.  And  you  want  to  get  married  next  Wakes, 
eh!" 

Emmie  looked  at  Tim. 

"  We've  been  thinking  of  it,"  she  said,  and  her  mind 
was  galloping  away  with  a  recital  of  this  conversation 
to  her  parents.  There  was  no  getting  away  from  this: 
Mr.  Booke  talking  to  her  seriously  of  the  marriage. 

Then  Mrs.  Bane  came  in,  followed  by  the  little  maid, 
and  dinner  was  served. 

Mr.  Booke  carved,  and  vegetable  dishes  were  put  in 
front  of  Tim. 

They  had  sirloin  of  beef  and  Yorkshire  pudding,  with 
potatoes  and  cauliflowers. 

Mr.  Booke  asked  Emmie  if  she  liked  undercut,  and  she 
hadn't  the  slightest  idea  what  he  meant,  but  guessing  he 
was  referring  to  fat  said,  "  A  little." 

Tim  helped  her  to  vegetables,  and  then  Mr.  Booke  said  : 
"  Get  ahead,  Emmie  —  don't  wait." 

Emmie,  fortunately,  was  not  flustered  with  a  lot  of 
knives  and  forks,  but  she  rarely  sat  down  to  table  where 
the  cloth  was  so  white  and  the  cutlery  so  clean,  and  the 
cruet  was  in  perfect  order,  with  the  mustard  in  a  regular 
pot,  instead  of  being  in  an  eggcup  or  some  other  odd 


124  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

vessel.  And  the  plates  seemed  so  fine  and  substantial 
.and  pretty  —  you  could  hang  them  on  the  wall,  was  Em- 
mie's reflection,  meant  to  be  conveyed  to  her  parents  when 
she  reached  home. 

To  outward  seeming  Emmie  had  taken  Mr.  Booke's 
advice  and  was  at  home.  She  did  not  put  her  knife  in 
her  mouth,  but  used  both  it  and  the  fork  neatly,  and 
passed  Tim's  plate  and  then  Mr.  Booke's  when  he  wanted 
vegetables. 

And,  of  course,  there  were  table  napkins,  the  use  of 
which  made  Emmie  feel  as  if  she  were  a  most  superior 
being  —  it  had  far  more  effect  on  her  than  the  cutlery 
or  the  cruet  or  the  cloth  or  the  food. 

Emmie,  having  a  choice  between  apple  tart  and  trifle, 
elected  apple  tart,  and  was  pleased  to  see  that  both  Tim 
and  Mr.  Booke  took  that  also.  She  refused  cheese,  but 
was  interested  in  the  biscuit  barrel  and  the  little  biscuits. 

They  had  coffee  after  dinner  and  Emmie  thought  it 
was  most  luxurious  —  the  three  cups  on  the  (what  she 
thought)  silver  tray,  striking  her  imagination  keenly. 

When  the  dinner  was  over  Emmie  felt  thoroughly  at 
home.  She  had  gone  through  the  meal  without  making 
any  foolish  blunders,  so  far  as  she  knew,  and  she  had 
acquired  an  ease  of  manner  that  would  stand  her  in  good 
stead  when  she  had  to  meet  the  other  members  of  the 
family  in  the  evening.  By  this  time  she  had  found  she 
could  talk  freely  and  frankly  to  Mr.  Booke,  despite  the 
fact  that  she  was  one  of  his  employes  —  in  essence  that 
fact  never  intruded  itself:  it  was  ignored  by  them  all 
and  felt  by  none.  Emmie  was  one  of  the  family,  or  bet- 
ter still,  about  to  be,  which  meant  that  for  the  moment 
she  was  treated  with  attention  and  consideration. 

At  that  time  the  Home  Rule  controversy  raged,  for 
Lord  Salisbury's  government  had  been  defeated  and  Mr. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  125 

Gladstone  had  openly  proclaimed  himself  a  Home  Ruler. 
The  elections  which  began  on  the  ist  of  July  had  re- 
sulted in  a  crushing  defeat  of  the  Liberals. 

Mr.  Booke  talked  to  Emmie  of  Home  Rule,  and  some- 
how did  it  so  well  that  she  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
a  Home  Ruler  or  not,  but  thought  he  was. 

Mr.  Booke  made  conversation  easy  by  doing  a  good 
deal  of  it  himself.  Emmie  did  not  read  newspapers  — 
except  the  local  weekly  —  but  admitted  she  had  heard  of 
Mr.  Stead,  the  "  unemployed,"  and  Sir  Charles  Dilke,  all 
news  items  of  prominence  in  the  year  1886. 

But  Emmie  had  a  bright  outlook  on  life,  her  mind  was 
clear  and  she  was  capable  of  grasping  a  subject  quickly, 
so  Mr.  Booke  thought  more  of  his  prospective  daughter- 
in-law  after  an  hour's  intimacy  than  he  had  done  be- 
fore. 

Tim  and  Emmie  sat  in  the  garden  till  tea  time,  and 
after  tea  went  a  walk,  returning  to  Helston  House  in 
time  for  supper. 

There  were  present,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holten,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Grass,  and  Miss  Booke,  besides  Timothy  Booke  and 
the  lovers. 

Emmie,  who  had  been  quite  comfortable  at  tea,  was 
moved  by  mixed  emotions  as  the  hour  approached  when 
she  must  meet  Tim's  uncles  and  aunts.  She  was  very 
desirous  of  making  a  good  impression  on  Tim's  relatives, 
particularly  after  the  happy  time  she  had  spent  at  Hel- 
ston House.  If  she  could  get  on  so  well  with  Mr.  Booke, 
why  not  with  the  others  ?  But  three  of  "  the  others  " 
were  women  —  with  tongues. 

Emmie  thought  of  her  looks,  her  figure,  her  dress,  and 
thought  they  (meaning  these  "aunts")  wouldn't  have 
much  to  say.  And  yet,  if  they  liked.  .  .  .  She  had 
vague  fears.  ...  In  the  end  she  was  confident  and  diffi- 


126 


dent,  wishful  to  be  in  the  formidable  company,  and  anx- 
ious about  criticism. 

She  took  her  hat  off  upstairs  again  and  saw  other  hats 
and  dolmans  on  the  bed.  She  had  a  look  at  them.  .  .  . 
Nothing  particularly  brilliant,  she  thought,  and  was  some- 
what reassured  at  the  sight  of  them. 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  tidied  her  hair  and 
washed  her  hands  in  the  bathroom,  thinking,  at  the  same 
time,  what  a  luxurious  place  a  bathroom  was  —  how  dif- 
ferent from  their  scullery.  But  those  taps  wanted  a  bit 
of  cleaning,  all  the  same.  .  .  . 

Tim  was  waiting  to  take  her  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Reckon  I'd  better  introduce  you,"  he  said. 

Emmie  said  nothing. 

As  she  entered  the  drawing-room,  she  heard  Mr.  Grass 
laugh  rather  loudly,  and  caught  a  confused  conversa- 
tion from  the  three  ladies,  who  were  together. 

Mr.  Grass  was  nearest  the  door,  and  said  rather, 
jovially : 

"So  this  is  Emmie,  is  it?"  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"  How  are  you?  very  well?  " 

Emmie  took  it  very  smilingly.  "  Yes,  thank  you,"  she 
replied. 

Mr.  Holten  stood  quite  gravely.  "How  d'you  do?" 
and  shook  hands. 

The  three  ladies  did  not  move.  Mrs.  Holten,  who 
wore  spectacles,  pushed  them  a  little  farther  from  her 
nose.  Miss  Booke  sat  as  upright  as  a  church  steeple  and 
Mrs.  Grass  looked  keenly  curious. 

Tim  brought  Emmie  round. 

"  I  don't  know  if  you  want  introducing,"  he  said 
quietly,  with  a  certain  calm  indifference.  "  Here's  Em- 
mie—  my  Aunt  Jane,  Mrs.  Holten " 

"  There's  no  need  to  introduce  her,  Tim,"  said  Mrs. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  127 

Holten.  "  We  all  know  Emmie  Bollins  by  this  time. 
We've  seen  you  on  your  way  to  the  trimming-room  often 
enough,  I  should  think."  She  smiled  faintly  at  Emmie 
—  a  little  more  faintly  and  it  would  not  have  been  recog- 
nised as  a  smile. 

"  I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Booke. 
"  Many's  the  time  I've  heard  her  clogs  rattle."  She 
smiled  vinegarly. 

"  Oh !  You  cats !  "  thought  Emmie.  The  mention  of 
clogs  galled  her.  She  had  certainly  worn  them  when  she 
was  younger,  but  had  given  them  up  some  time  ago,  ex- 
cept for  an  occasional  very  wet  day. 

She  stood  still.  Her  smile,  that  had  at  first  been 
pleasant  and  joyous,  faded  into  a  half-sickly,  half-defiant 
expression. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Grass,  "  better  dry  feet  in  clogs  than 
wet  'uns  in  cheap  boots,  eh,  er  —  Emmie  ?  "  He  had 
boggled  at  the  Christian  name  for  a  moment,  and  so  it 
came  as  after-consideration. 

"  A  decent  pair  of  boots  will  keep  rain  out,"  said  Miss 
Booke  sharply.  "My  feet  never  get  wet.  Still,  of 
course,  we  don't  expect  —  er  —  Tim's  wife  to  wear 
clogs." 

"  Have  you  been  a  walk,  Emmie?  "  asked  Mrs.  Grass, 
who  wanted  to  talk  to  Emmie  and  get  on  terms  with  her. 

Miss  Booke  glared.  Mrs.  Holten  screwed  up  her 
mouth.  Why  was  their  sister  making  so  free  so  soon 
with  this  Emmie  Bollins?  She  ought  to  be  kept  in  her 
place,  or  at  any  rate,  made  to  feel  it.  They  would  have 
to  be  friendly  ultimately,  but  the  trimmer  ought  to  have 
her  trimmings  thrown  at  her  first. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Emmie  quietly. 

"  Nice  to  have  a  pleasant  Sunday,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 
"You  feel  fitter  for  work  on  the  Monday  morning. 


128  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

What  time  do  you  have  to  get  to  the  trimming-room, 
Emmie?" 

"  Eight  o'clock,"  replied  Emmie. 

"Do  you  pad  for  your  mother,  too?"  asked  Miss 
Booke. 

"  She  does  very  little  now,"  replied  Emmie. 

"  She'll  miss  you,"  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "  If  your  money 
doesn't  go  in  the  house,  they'll  feel  it." 

"  They'll  manage,"  said  Emmie,  who  was  feeling  her- 
self now  being  very  well  baited. 

"They'll  manage  —  of  course,  they'll  manage,"  said 
Mrs.  Holten.  "  As  long  as  your  father's  steady  and 
there's  work  at  Booke  &  Son's.  I  suppose  he'll  always 
be  able  to  get  enough  to  do  if  he  wants  it." 

"  And  you've  a  sister  that  trims,  haven't  you  ?  "  asked 
Miss  Booke. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  they'll  not  be  so  badly  off." 

Emmie  began  to  think  it  might  be  worth  while  telling 
these  ladies  they  needn't  imagine  they  were  scoring  over 
her,  because  they  weren't.  .  .  . 

Tim  was  quiet.  Mr.  Booke  was  listening.  The  other 
two  men  were  talking  politics :  "  Lord  Salisbury  would 
have  no  easy  job  for  these  Liberal  Unionists  headed  by 
Lord  Harlington  and  Chamberlain  —  Chamberlain,  prin- 
cipally—  were  a  dangerous  flank.  They  were  against 
Home  Rule,  but  they  were  also  against  Lord  Salisbury's 
Toryism.  .  .  .  There'd  be  a  crash  soon.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Grass  had  at  last  succeeded  in  getting  hold  of 
Emmie  to  be  able  to  say : 

"  You're  going  to  be  married  at  the  Wakes,  aren't 
you?" 

"  We're  thinking  of  it." 

"  And  where  are  you  going  to  live  ?  " 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  129 

Emmie  looked  at  Tim. 

"  Here,"  said  Tim. 

"  Here,"  echoed  Mrs.  Holten,  as  if  aghast  at  the  idea, 
with  which,  however,  she  was  very  well  acquainted. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Tim. 

Emmie  wished  that  she  were  at  home,  or  rather,  that 
these  Booke  ladies  were. 

"  But  what's  your  father  going  to  do  ?  He  doesn't 
want  a  young  family  round  him,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

"  Father's  going  somewhere  else." 

"Well!"  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "That's  a  nice  start! 
Turning  your  father  out  of  his  house  when  you  get  mar- 
ried." 

Emmie's  eyelids  were  twitching  with  emotion.  She 
wanted  to  turn  nobody  out  of  a  house.  She  had  even 
suggested  that  Mr.  Booke  should  go  on  living  in  the 
house,  she  didn't  mind.  And  here  they  were,  talking 
like  this.  She  had  always  felt  folks  would  talk.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  know  that?"  Mrs.  Holten  suddenly  asked 
Emmie. 

"  Ye-es." 

Mrs.  Holten  snorted,  and  looked  significantly  at  her 
sisters,  taking  off  her  spectacles,  as  she  did  so,  with  a 
fine  emphasis.  There  was  an  air  in  the  action  of  coming 
to  grips  with  something  or  other. 

Emmie  wondered  what  on  earth  they  were  going  to  say 
or  do  next.  Why  didn't  somebody  talk  about  something 
else?  .  .  . 

Miss  Booke  said :  "  Well.  ...  So  you're  being 
turned  out  of  your  house,  Timothy,  when  you  get  your 
daughter-in-law  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  turned  out  at  all,"  Timothy  replied  stolidly, 
and  Emmie  felt  as  if  she  could  kiss  him  for  that. 

"  But  you're  going  out." 


130  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Ay." 

"  What  difference  is  there,  then?  "  asked  Mrs.  Holten 
sharply.  "  You're  only  going  out  because  one  of  your 
trimmers  come  in  —  I  call  that  being  turned  out." 

Emmie  went  almost  white. 

Tim  smiled,  with  a  trace  of  wickedness  in  it  —  as  if 
he  said :  "  These  aunts  of  mine  are  playing  the  fool 
again." 

"  You  meant  leaving  here,  Timothy,  in  any  case,  when 
Tim  married,  didn't  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  Ay." 

Miss  Booke  sniffed. 

"  It  is  funny,  all  the  same.  Emmie,  here,  comes  out 
of  the  trimming-room  into  this  house,  and  then  the  pro- 
prietor of  T.  Booke  &  Son's  goes  out." 

Emmie  said :  "  I  didn't  ask  Mr.  Booke  to  go.  I 
didn't  want  him  to  go,  for  that  matter." 

"  Nobody  said  you  did,"  retorted  Miss  Booke.  "  But 
the  fact's  there,  isn't  it?" 

Emmie  was  silent,  and  felt  she  had  not  improved  mat- 
ters. She  wanted  to  say  cutting  things  to  these  ladies, 
but  they  were  sisters  of  Mr.  Booke  and  she  was  in  his 
house,  for  the  first  time,  in  fact,  and  the  fact  that,  after 
all,  she  was  marrying  above  her  station  and  people  like 
that  had  to  put  up  with  tongues,  restrained  her. 

Mrs.  Bane  saved  the  situation  at  that  moment  for 
Emmie,  by  announcing  that  supper  was  ready. 

Mr.  Booke  got  up. 

"  Then  we'll  have  some,"  he  said,  as  if  he,  too,  were 
pleased  at  the  diversion. 

Mr.  Grass  said  very  jovially  to  Emmie,  as  they  were 
going  to  the  dining-room :  "  Made  up  your  mind  where 
you're  going  for  your  honeymoon?  " 

Emmie  was  inclined  to  be  depressed  by  the  gibes  of  the 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  131 

ladies,  but  Mr.  Grass  was  clearly  trying  to  be  agree- 
able. 

"We  had  thought  of  Bournemouth  —  er " 

"  Bournemouth.  .  .  .  Get  him  to  take  you  to  Paris." 

Emmie  looked  mischievously  out  of  her  bright  eyes. 

Mr.  Grass  laughed. 

"  You'd  enjoy  it.  And  you  mayn't  get  the  chance 
again  for  some  time.  You  won't  be  running  about  when 
you  get  a  family." 

Emmie  blushed,  but  was  quite  pleased  with  Mr.  Grass's 
evident  show  of  friendliness. 

In  the  dining-room  the  Booke  ladies  surveyed  the  sup- 
per table  with  critical  eyes. 

Emmie  was  impressed  by  the  shining  silver,  the  clean 
cloth,  the  beautiful  crockery,  as  well  as  by  the  food. 

"  H'm,"  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "  Mrs.  Bane  isn't  bad  at 
setting  out  a  table." 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Booke.  "  Overloads  it  a  bit.  Some 
of  these  sweets  would  be  far  better  on  the  sideboard  till 
we  want  them." 

"  Let's  you  see  what's  coming,"  said  Mr.  Holten. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing  for  Emmie  to  have  a  few 
lessons  from  Mrs.  Bane,"  said  Miss  Booke.  "  It  isn't 
everybody  can  lay  a  table." 

"  No.  I  don't  suppose  you  often  get  your  serviettes 
mixed  up  at  home,  do  you,  Emmie?"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  Not  often,"  replied  Emmie,  who  was  surprised  her- 
self at  her  reply.  It  was  not  rude,  and  yet  it  had  in  it 
the  effectiveness  of  retort. 

Tim  laughed.  Timothy  almost  smiled,  and  felt  he 
wouldn't  mind  patting  Emmie  on  the  back  for  that. 

"  Sit  here,  Emmie,"  Tim  said,  his  eyes  still  twinkling 
at  Emmie's  delightful  answer. 

And  Mr.  Grass  broke  into  new  ground  by  saying: 


132  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  That  looks  a  fine  piece  of  meat,  Timothy.  D'you 
still  go  to  Barley's  for  it?  Look  at  that  undercut." 

"  Ay,"  said  Mr.  Booke. 

And  they  all  fell  to  discussing  butchers  and  meat  and 
grocers,  and  then  easily  led  into  bits  of  gossip. 

Emmie  was  ignored,  and  was  relatively  happy. 

Tim  attended  to  her  very  well,  and  she  was  now  ex- 
ceedingly anxious  not  to  make  any  mistake  at  the  table 
for,  if  she  did,  she  knew  what  she  had  to  expect  from 
the  ladies  watching  her. 

Miss  Booke  made  her  shiver  and  grow  warm  by  say- 
ing: 

"  Put  your  bread  on  the  other  side  of  your  plate,  Em- 
mie; the  left  side,  always,  for  bread." 

Emmie  picked  up  the  bread  and  put  it  on  the  left  side 
of  her  plate  as  if  she  were  a  child  being  taught  a  lesson. 

Miss  Booke  did  not  smile;  she  spoke  as  if  the  sight  of 
bread  on  the  right  side  of  the  eater's  plate  pained  her. 

Mr.  Grass  was  just  about  to  say  he  never  knew  which 
side  he  had  his  bread,  and  was  content  to  get  it  in  his 
mouth,  when  he  realised  he  would  make  a  faux  pas  and 
at  once  felt  sorry  for  Emmie.  He  was  a  tanned,  healthy- 
looking  man,  fond  of  his  wife,  and  good-natured. 

"  This  beef  is  good,  Timothy,"  he  said.  "  You  can 
always  tell  English  beef  from  foreign,  can't  you?  " 

The  talk  was  switched  off  Emmie  and  etiquette  for  the 
moment,  particularly  as  Mrs.  Holten  had  something  of 
importance  to  say  to  Mrs.  Grass,  who  nodded. 

Miss  Booke  said,  "  Is  it  .  .  ."     She  nodded. 

Mrs.  Holten  nodded  to  signify  "  Yes." 

Then  there  was  a  trio  of  "  Isn't  it  ?  ...  Well.  ...  I 
always  said  so,"  winding  up  with,  "  We'll  talk  about  it 
after,"  which  made  Emmie  feel  like  saying :  "  I  don't 
want  to  hear  your  blessed  conversation." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  133 

When  the  sweets  were  served  out  Mrs.  Holten  helped 
to  apple  tart,  Mr.  Booke  had  a  jelly  to  distribute,  and 
Mrs.  Grass  rice  pudding. 

Emmie  had  cast  her  eyes  at  the  sweets  for  the  purpose 
of  having  that  which  would  cause  her  the  least  dis- 
quietude in  handling. 

Miss  Booke  said :  "  I'll  wait ;  serve  the  others."  Mrs. 
Holten  said  she  would  help  herself.  Mrs.  Grass  said, 
"  Some  jelly,  please,  Timothy." 

Mrs.  Holten  said  coldly  to  Emmie,  as  if  she  were  dis- 
tributing something  extraordinarily  rich,  and  rare: 
"  Some  tart  .  .  .  apple  tart  .  .  .  Emmie?" 

Now,  Emmie  had  desired  jelly,  but  feared  its  unstable 
qualities;  she  wished  for  no  more  lectures  from  Miss 
Booke  and,  being  in  a  diffident  or  anxious  frame  of  mind, 
was  intimidated  even  by  apple  tart,  a  dish  she  had  eaten 
at  dinner  with  complete  satisfaction.  She  meant,  for  a 
moment,  to  refuse  all  sweets,  but  felt  that  might  be  as 
bad  as  doing  the  wrong  thing;  besides,  she  was  young 
and  food  attracted  her  and  she  liked  sweets. 

She  did  not  dare  to  say :  "  May  I  have  some  pud- 
ding? "  She  had  been  taught  to  wait  till  she  was  asked. 
At  least,  she  had  had  the  phrase  on  critical  occasions 
flung  at  her  when  she  was  young,  which  is  described  with 
benevolent  generosity  as  "  teaching." 

Mr.  Booke  said :  "  Or  some  jelly,  Emmie  —  or  rice 
pudding?  " 

"  Yes,  please,"  said  Emmie,  relieved.  "  Rice  pudding, 
please." 

;<  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Grass,  rather  fussily  helping  it;  mak- 
ing a  deal  of  fuss  over  it. 

Mrs.  Holten  looked  round  the  table :  "  Tim,"  she  said 
invitingly. 

Tim  nodded :     "  Please,  Aunt  Jane." 


134  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Mrs.  Grass  passed  Emmie's  plate  with  an  air  of  doing 
her  well;  she  would  like  the  girl  to  see  that  even  milk 
pudding  could  be  helped  liberally.  But  Mr.  Booke  said : 
"  Have  a  bit  of  pie  with  it,  Emmie  ?  " 

Emmie  hesitated.  She  did  like  apple  pie,  and  Tim  was 
having  some. 

"  Doesn't  seem  to  know  her  own  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Hoi- 
ten  tartly. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Emmie. 

"  There's  plenty,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  I  don't  wa — "  began  Emmie. 

"  Give  her  a  bit,  Jane,"  said  Timothy.  "  I  can  see  she 
likes  it." 

"  She  can  surely  ask  for  what  she  wants,"  said  Miss 
Booke. 

"  Do  you  want  any  tart,  Emmie?  "  asked  Mrs.  Holten. 
"  It'll  go  very  well  with  that  pudding  if  you  haven't  got 
too  much  —  you  see,  Mrs.  Grass  didn't  think  you  were 
going  to  have  tart  as  well." 

Emmie  wanted  to  throw  tart  and  pudding  at  them. 
She  was  very  near  to  tears,  but  knew  that  would  be  the 
worst  thing  she  could  do.  She  was  blushing  beautifully. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  scarcely  knowing  what  she 
wanted,  and  only  desirous  of  being  left  alone. 

Tim  took  her  plate  and  passed  it  to  her. 

"  Have  just  what  you  want,"  he  said.  "  If  you  don't 
like  that  leave  it  and  have  something  else.  If  you  want 
anything  else,  have  it." 

Emmie  tried  to  smile. 

Miss  Booke  said :  "  I  like  apple  tart  and  rice  pudding 
together  myself." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  I  like  Mrs.  Bane's  jellies,"  said  Mrs.  Grass. 

"Heard  about  Tom  Whittaker,  Timothy?"  said  Mr. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  135 

Holten,  and  again  Emmie  felt  relief  that  she  was  not 
being  talked  at  or  told  what  to  do  or  what  not  to  do. 

When  she  was  asked  to  have  some  more  she  said,  "  No, 
thank  you,"  and  Mrs.  Holten  said :  "  I  should  think 
Emmie  knows  what  she  wants." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Booke,  with  a  most  significant  nod. 

The  ladies  did  not  get  friendly  during  the  whole  of  the 
evening.  They  talked  to  one  another  and  ignored  Emmie 
and  talked  at  her.  If  she  were  inclined  to  be  happy  talk- 
ing to  Tim  one  of  the  three  ladies  would  drag  her  back 
into  the  arena,  so  that  she  could  be  made  properly  and 
thoroughly  to  realise  that  she  was  entering  the  Booke 
family  through  no  wish  of  theirs,  and  that  she  must  be- 
have herself  in  the  way  approved  of  or  they  would  quickly 
and  persistently  call  her  over  the  coals. 

In  the  bedroom,  when  they  were  all  putting  their  hats 
on,  Emmie  felt  almost  as  if  she  were  a  worm.  The 
Booke  ladies  talked  to  each  other,  ignored  Emmie,  and 
then  Mrs.  Holten  said :  "  Let's  look  at  you,  Emmie. 
.  .  .  Turn  round.  .  .  .  Do  you  like  that  hat,  Maria?" 

Miss  Booke  said  "  No,"  with  a  snap.  "  I  hope  you'll 
dress  quietly  and  with  good  taste  when  you  are  married 
to  Tim." 

"  Nobody  has  found  fault  with  my  dress  before,"  said 
Emmie,  hit  on  the  raw.  She  felt  they  would  be  calling 
her  ugly  next!  .  .  . 

"  No ;  but  you'll  move  in  a  different  class  as  Mrs.  Tim- 
othy Booke." 

Emmie  pressed  her  lips  together;  she  thought  it  best 
to  say  nothing  —  just  then. 

When  she  walked  home  with  Tim,  she  said :  "  What 
d'you  think  of  your  aunts?  " 


136  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"What  about 'em?" 

"  Getting  at  me  like  they  did  —  saying  all  those  spite- 
ful things  —  as  if  I  was  dirt."  She  was  on  the  edge  of 
tears  as  she  recalled  them  where  she  was  free  to  cry 
without  loss  of  dignity. 

Tim  laughed. 

"  That's  their  way,"  he  said.  "  You  can  say  what  you 
like  to  them.  They're  all  mustard  when  it's  talk.  Hit 
'em  back  or  take  no  notice  —  please  yourself.  They  try 
to  get  at  me  sometimes,  but  they  might  just  as  well  try 
to  fill  a  dye  kettle  with  a  thimble.  Aunt  Jane  and  Aunt 
Maria  think  there's  nobody  equal  to  the  Bookes,  but 
that's  only  because  they're  Bookes.  If  they  were  any- 
body else  it  would  be  just  the  same.  Only,  if  you  let  'em, 
they'll  walk  on  you." 

Emmie  nodded  as  if  with  a  quiet  but  sure  understand- 
ing. 

"  They  won't  walk  on  me,"  she  said. 

Tim  looked  round.  It  was  dark ;  there  were  few  peo- 
ple about. 

"  Don't  you  let  'em,"  he  said,  and  Chen  he  put  his  arms 
round  her,  pressed  her  to  him  and  kissed  her.  "  Enjoyed 
yourself?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes."  She  looked  into  his  face  lovingly ;  she  felt 
very  grateful  for  Tim's  love. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  wedding  day  arrived  at  last. 
Emmie's  emotions  were  ordinary.  The  fact  that 
she  was  about  to  be  married  was  in  itself  a  bigger  event 
to  her  than  whom  she  was  to  marry.  The  Bookes,  who 
had  counted  for  so  much  hitherto,  dropped  behind  the 
event  in  importance. 

To  be  married.  .  .  .  There  were  the  new  clothes,  the 
ceremony  in  the  church  with  people  about  —  and  not  in- 
significant people,  either!  the  railway  journey  with  those 
fine  clothes  packed  in  a  new  trunk,  Tim  by  her  side.  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Booke.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Tim  Booke.  .  .  \  Mrs.  Tjm, 
they  would  call  her.  .  .  .  The  hotel  .  .  .  porters  about. 
..."  Yes,  madame,"  "  No,  madame."  .  .  .  She  and 
Tim  alone. 

She  no  sooner  felt  one  wave  of  emotion  break  over 
her  than  another  swept  along.  It  was  a  day  of  big  emo- 
tions for  Emmie,  and  details  seemed  merged  in  the  one 
big  event. 

Tim  had  given  Emmie  £20  so  that  her  family  could 
provide  themselves  with  new  clothes.  Emmie  had  re- 
fused to  take  the  money  at  first,  but  Tim  had  insisted. 
He  said  it  was  for  her  family  —  her  father  and  mother 
and  sister  ...  he  wanted  them  all  to  feel  comfortable. 
So  Emmie's  wedding  was  a  very  great  day  at  the  Bollins'. 
For  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bollins  and  Sarah  the  principal  item 
was  not  that  Emmie  was  getting  married,  but  that  she 
was  marrying  Mr.  Timothy  Booke  of  T.  Booke  &  Son. 
It  was  "  My  daughter's  marrying  Mr.  Tim  Booke  "—  or 
"  sister,"  as  the  case  was. 


138  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

All  the  Bollinses  were  excited.  Emmie  had,  of  course, 
to  be  turned  out  irreproachably;  but  then  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  dressing  well.  With  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bollins  it 
was  different.  Neither  of  them  had  been  so  well  dressed 
for  years  —  probably  in  all  their  lives.  The  new  clothes 
were  an  anxiety  and  struggle  for  them  both.  Mr.  Bol- 
lins tried  his  on  the  night  before  —  as  did  they  all  save 
Emmie. 

Emmie  had  a  bath  on  the  eve  of  the  great  day,  and 
when  she  had  finished  Sarah  got  out  of  bed,  came  down- 
stairs and  had  one  too  —  in  front  of  the  kitchen  fire. 
Mr.  Bollins  kept  walking  up  and  down  the  bedroom, 
worn  by  anxiety  about  his  boots;  he  was  afraid  if  there 
was  much  walking  to  do  he'd  be  knocked  up.  Mrs.  Bol- 
lins suggested  he  should  change  them  for  a  larger  pair 
early  in  the  morning  and  be  comfortable  —  there  was 
nothing  so  uncomfortable  as  tight  boots,  particularly  if 
you  walked  a  lot.  And  they  would  walk,  you  might  rely 
on  that;  and  Mrs.  Holten  could  pass  remarks  if  they  be- 
haved funny.  .  .  .  She'd  change  them  if  she  had  tight 
boots;  that  was  one  thing  she'd  always  been  careful  about 
—  not  having  tight  boots.  .  .  . 

She  said  all  this  as  she  sat  on  the  bed,  sewing  buttons 
on  a  chemise  and  then  darning  stockings. 

Mr.  Bollins  was  not  only  gravely  anxious  over  his 
boots,  but  was  also  deeply  concerned  with  his  clothes. 
Tails  were  cut  different  from  what  they  used  to  be,  he 
thought  he  liked  the  old  style  best.  The  trousers  were 
all  right.  He  could  have  had  another  pattern.  One 
with  a  big  stripe  would  have  showed  up  well.  But  he 
liked  these ;  they  were  gentlemanly.  .  .  . 

Eventually  Emmie  was  washed.  Sarah  was  washed, 
chemises  had  buttons  on,  stockings  were  darned.  New 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  139 

clothes  lay  on  chairs  and  boxes  and  in  open  drawers,  and 
the  Bollins  household  was  in  darkness  and  asleep. 

As  the  actual  moment  of  the  ceremony  drew  near, 
Emmie  was  merely  nervous  in  a  vague  way.  She  wanted 
to  do  what  she  had  to  do  in  a  manner  to  deserve  praise, 
but  in  any  case  not  to  merit  fault-finding.  Her  family 
tried  her.  They  could  not  concentrate  on  her  because 
they  were  all  so  anxious  about  their  own  appearances  and 
conduct. 

But  they  were  ready  at  last,  and  the  house,  as  they  left 
it,  Mr.  Bollins  locking  the  door  and  putting  the  key  in  his 
pocket,  "  was  a  sight  " —  Mrs.  Bollins'  expression. 

In  the  cab,  Emmie  was  the  central  figure  again  to 
mother  and  sister,  for  they  really  pictured  her  in  the 
scene.  But  Mr.  Bollins  uttered  frequent  little  coughs 
and  pushed  his  thin  chest  out  as  he  thought  of  himself 
walking  down  that  church  with  his  daughter  on  his  arm 
to  give  her  to  Mr.  Tim,  while  Mr.  Booke,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Holten,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grass,  Miss  Booke,  Mr.  Saxton, 
Mrs.  Holland,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ridley,  Mr.  Every,  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Mellor  ...  he  began  licking  his  lips  as  he  thought 
of  all  these  really  important  people  watching  him,  Sam 
Bollins,  a  body-maker  at  T.  Booke  &  Son's,  walking  down 
the  church  with  his  daughter  on  his  arm  .  .  .  well,  they'd 
have  to  say  he  was  dressed  well;  dressed,  in  a  way,  as 
well  as  any  of  'em,  for  that  matter;  and  they'd  have  to 
go  a  jolly  long  way  before  they'd  find  a  prettier  girl  than 
his  daughter  Emmie  —  and  she'd  got  her  head  screwed 
on  all  right,  too.  She  had  that.  She'd  show  'em.  He 
could  have  done  things  if  he'd  only  had  the  chance  — 
half  a  chance.  Well,  he  wasn't  in  the  background  to- 
day, for  instance,  eh?  What?  .  .  . 


140  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Emmie  was  almost  calm  as  they  drew  up  at  the  church 
gates.  She  knew  she  was  tastefully  dressed  in  her  trav- 
elling costume;  there  was  neither  pretence  nor  tawdri- 
ness  about  it.  Besides,  the  tight-fitting  bodice  showed 
her  figure,  and  the  bustle  behind  was  just  the  fashion. 

Emmie  felt  fit  for  a  ceremony.  It  would  soon  be  over 
and  she  would  be  Mrs.  Timothy  Booke.  She  hoped  her 
father  would  behave  properly.  .  .  . 

She  said  to  her  mother,  just  before  getting  out  of  the 
cab: 

"  I  expect  some  one'll  show  you  to  a  seat,  Mother." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins.  "  We  shall  be  all  right. 
Do  you  feel  ...  all  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie  cheerfully. 

Mr.  Bollins  coughed,  tugged  at  his  coat  and  shook  him- 
self. Emmie  put  her  hand  in  his  arm,  bent  her  head 
slightly,  and  walked  down  the  church  with  a  neat  blend 
of  modesty  and  confidence. 

"  Emmie's  all  there,"  whispered  Mr.  Grass  to  his  wife. 

"  She  is  that,"  whispered  Mrs.  Grass  to  her  husband. 

Tim  was  happy.  Emmie  was  happy.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bollins  and  Sarah  were  happy,  too,  but  a  little  too  proud 
to  be  without  a  weak  spot.  The  Booke  family  knew  that 
people  were  saying :  "  After  all,  Emmie  Bollins  .  .  ." 
with  nods;  "what  is  she  —  after  all?  "  or  words  to  that 
effect. 

To  all  outward  seeming  there  were  smiles  and  a  deep 
interest  and  a  chorus  of  very  pleasant  remarks,  but  the 
Bookes,  who  loved,  above  most  things,  to  be  able  to 
boast,  felt  that  this  was  no  day  of  rejoicing  for  them 
save  as  capable  people. 

Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  and  Mrs.  Grass  even, 
could  look  all  people  in  the  face,  and  few  would  dare 
to  say  anything  disparaging  about  the  connection  with  the 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  141 

Bollins  family  that  was  being  celebrated ;  but  the  Bookes 
did  not  hide  their  heads  in  the  sand  of  self-delusion. 
They  knew  what  was  whispered  behind  their  backs. 
They  felt  sore  with  Emmie  accordingly.  They  jeered  in 
their  hearts  at  Sam  Bollins  as  he  walked  down  the  aisle. 
They  ignored  Mrs.  Bollins  and  Sarah  as  much  and  as 
long  as  they  could.  But  the  god  of  Public  Opinion  held 
great  hold  of  them;  they  could  not  go  too  far.  They 
had  at  certain  moments  to  praise  Emmie.  She  was 
healthy  and  a  good  worker  and  pretty,  and  as  for  money, 
well,  they  thought  they  had  enough  of  thjat.  They  put  a 
bold  face  on  the  matter  to  friends  and  f*6£s  and  gnashed 
the  teeth  that  Pride  would  set  on  edge. 

Mr.  Booke  was  serious  almost  all  day,  but  not  de- 
pressed. He  seemed  to  have  been  observing  keenly  and 
shrewdly  for  some  time,  and  was  very  cordial  to  Emmie 
as  she  and  Tim  went  off  on  the  start  of  their  linked  life's 
journey. 

The  wedding  was  naturally  of  an  order  to  reflect  credit 
on  the  Bookes.  Timothy  was  willing  to  spend  for  the 
sake  of  his  only  son ;  his  sisters  saw  that  the  whole  affair 
made  people  comment  favourably  on  the  Booke  family. 
Timothy  talked  to  Samuel  Bollins  with  no  hint  of  the 
workshop. 

"  Suppose  you've  been  here  lots  of  times,  eh,  Sam?" 
he  said  in  the  afternoon,  when  they  were  out  in  the  coun- 
try, where  all  the  guests  had  been  driven  in  brakes. 

"  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Used  to  come  here  when  I  was  a  lad." 

"  Nice,  healthy  spot.  I  remember  once  coming  here  " 
.  .  .  and  the  two  fathers  chatted  with  friendliness  and 
without  restraint  or  affectation  of  any  kind. 

Mrs.  Holten  moved  about  with  a  most  important  air. 
She  could  not  thrust  down  the  effervescing  feeling: 
"  This  is  a  Booke  day ;  this  is  an  occasion  on  which  we 


142  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Bookes  can  lead,  direct,  guide  and  generally  feel  that  to 
us  is  entrusted  the  task  of  entertaining  these  people. 
Also  we  feel  that  such  a  task  could  not  have  been  in  more 
capable  hands  and  we  mean  to  do  our  best  to  let  these 
guests  feel  that  they  have  had  a  most  enjoyable  day  and 
that  it  was  due  to  the  superb  managing  ability  of  us 
Bookes." 

And  yet  amidst  the  success  of  the  picnic  there  was  this 
biting  reflection  in  the  hearts  of  Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss 
Booke  and  (in  a  lesser  degree)  of  Mrs.  Grass:  "  If  it 
hadn't  been  Emmie  Bollins!  ...  If  it  had  been  Ellen 
Quillan,  for  instance  —  somebody  we  could  have  boasted 
about,  with  influential  or,  at  any  rate,  important  rela- 
tives, not  one  whose  father  is  a  journeyman,  shirtsleeve 
hatter,  like  this  Sam  Bollins !  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Bollins  was  quite  content.  He  felt  well,  smoked 
cigars  and  noted  no  fly  in  the  ointment. 

Mrs.  Bollins  was  not  blind  to  the  views  of  Mrs.  Hol- 
ten and  Miss  Booke.  But  she  was  prepared  for  them, 
and  did  not  complain.  Sarah  called  them  cats,  but  ad- 
mitted she  had  had  a  very  good  time.  She  said  one 
thing  that  seemed  to  have  wisdom  in  it : 

"  When  our  Emmie  comes  back,"  she  remarked,  as  she 
sat  with  her  father  and  mother  talking  over  the  events 
of  the  day,  "  she'll  have  to  mind  her  p's  and  q's  in  that 
family  or  they'll  give  her  what-for." 

Mr.  Bollins  looked  at  a  cigar  he  had  brought  away 
from  the  repast  and  wondered  if  he  should  smoke  it  now 
or  keep  it  till  Sunday.  .  .  . 

"  Our  Emmie's  Mrs.  Booke  now.  .  .  .  Whatever  they 
say,  they  can't  alter  that,"  he  said. 


PART  TWO:   THE   HAPPY  WIFE 


PART  TWO:    THE  HAPPY  WIFE 

CHAPTER  XII 

MR.  BOOKE  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  had  a 
private  fortune  of  about  twenty-five  thousand 
pounds,  and  he  gave  up  house  and  business  on  his  son's 
marriage.  So  that  when  Tim  and  his  wife  returned  from 
their  honeymoon  they  went  home  to  Helston  House  and 
saw  through  the  window  the  factory  of  which  Tim  was 
now  the  sole  proprietor. 

Mr.  Booke  had  left  most  of  the  furniture  behind  him. 
His  bedroom  suite  he  took,  also  sundry  portraits  and 
pictures  and  odd  articles  which  had  some  personal  or 
sentimental  value  for  him.  He  rented  a  house  on  the 
Manchester  Road  and  Mrs.  Bane  went  with  him  as  his 
housekeeper. 

Emmie  realised  vividly  the  change  from  the  tiny  place 
in  Silton  Street  to  Helston  House.  She  did  not  express 
her  opinion  of  the  change  to  anybody  outside  the  mem- 
bers of  her  family  —  and  to  them  only  with  a  neat  dis- 
cretion —  but  she  was  very  much  impressed  by  her  new 
home. 

Fortunately  she  was  happy.  She  was  warm-hearted 
and  affectionate,  and  she  and  Tim  suited  one  another. 
After  the  first  few  days  of  the  honeymoon  she  knew  she 
was  of  the  tribe  that  is  well  married,  and  when  she  got  in 
the  cab  at  Canton  Station  on  the  return,  she  felt  that  in 
her  native  town  she  would  henceforward  be  a  person  of 
some  importance. 

She  gave  no  gasping  note  of  admiration  or  surprise 
when  she  was  received  at  Helston  House  by  Mrs.  Bane, 

145 


146  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

who  had  come  up  specially  to  show  her  round,  and  by  the 
little  maid,  who  was  to  help  her  to  keep  the  house  clean. 
She  behaved  very  calmly  and  easily,  indulging  in  no 
affected  hauteur  or  bending  familiarity.  She  saw  all 
the  luggage  was  taken  safely  off  and  out  of  the  cab,  and 
when  Mrs.  Bane  expressed  a  hope  that  she  had  had  an 
enjoyable  time,  said  "  Yes,  most  enjoyable,"  and  talked 
of  the  place  very  pleasantly,  ending  up  by  saying :  "  It 
seems  a  shame  to  have  turned  you  out  of  here,  Mrs. 
Bane." 

"  Not  at  all.  I'm  with  the  master.  He's  got  a  nice 
little  place,  you  know.  They're  very  nice  houses  in  that 
terrace  and  won't  give  so  much  work  as  this.  I'll  show 
you  round  here,  Mrs.  Tim,  when  you've  had  some  tea." 

"  Thank  you.     Yes,  I  shall  be  glad  of  some  tea." 

The  tea,  nicely  set  out  in  the  dining-room,  where  there 
was  that  thick  carpet  and  solid-looking  furniture,  made 
Emmie  think:  This  is  really  mine.  I  am  really  and 
truly  the  mistress  of  this  house.  It  isn't  a  dream  or  a 
fairy  tale  or  something  made  up  —  it  is  real.  This  is  my 
house  —  mine.  .  .  .  What  a  difference  to  the  other! 

She  looked  round  almost  too  keenly  for  her  watchful- 
ness. 

"  Well,  we're  home  at  last,"  said  Tim. 

Emmie  looked  at  him  with  fond  eyes.  It  was  due  to 
him  that  she  was  here;  but  she  did  not  think  much  of  that 
view.  He  couldn't  help  it.  She  had  appeared  before 
him  and  he  had  to  do  what  he  had  done. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  smiling  as  she  sat  down  without  fur- 
ther hesitation  in  front  of  the  teapot  and  thought  what 
lovely  china  it  was  .  .  .  and  the  cutlery  .  .  .  and  what 
an  expensive  pot  —  silver,  of  course  (it  wasn't,  being 
merely  plated;  but  Emmie  was  not  equal  to  all  this  yet), 
and  the  beautiful  room!  .  .  .  But  she  kept  her  head  at 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  147 

a  good  level.  "  Aren't  you  glad  of  your  tea,  Tim  ?  " 
She  spoke  as  if  tea  was  uppermost  with  her. 

"  Yes,  I  feel  I  can  do  with  it." 

She  poured  out  the  tea,  realising  she  was  presiding  at 
her  own  table,  in  her  own  home,  for  the  first  time. 

She  sipped. 

"  Tea's  refreshing." 

"  Yes.  What  are  you  going  to  have,  Emmie  ?  "  asked 
Tim.  "  Some  of  this  fish  .  .  .  plaice,  isn't  it?  or  there's 
some  potted  meat.  Better  have  some  fish,  it's  hot."  He 
helped  her. 

She  noted  the  fish  knife  and  fork  with  which  they 
were  provided,  the  tasteful  way  the  fish  was  served,  the 
thin  bread  and  butter  on  the  plates  with  the  nice  doileys 
on  them  —  almost  like  the  hotel  where  they  had  stayed. 

"  Glad  to  get  home,  Emmie?  "  Tim  asked. 

"  Ye-es.  It  was  all  right  away,"  she  smiled ;  they  had 
been  very  happy. 

"  Ay  .  .  .  well,  it's  work  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,"  and  Emmie  said  to  herself:  "  No  more  trim- 
ming, either." 

After  tea  Mrs.  Bane  took  Emmie  through  the  house. 
She  showed  her  rooms,  cupboards  where  linen  was  stored, 
and  food,  and  amazed  Emmie  more  than  she  guessed  — 
and  she  naturally  guessed  at  a  little.  Emmie  was  aston- 
ished at  the  order  and  plenty  in  the  house.  There 
seemed  to  be  so  many  things  and  contrivances  and  such 
places  for  things,  from  the  great  whitewashed,  clean  cel- 
lars to  the  ample  bedrooms.  Emmie  had  always  had  to 
move  carefully  at  her  old  home  for  fear  she  knocked 
against  a  member  of  her  family  or  a  piece  of  furniture. 
Here  there  seemed  to  be  plenty  of  room  for  everything 
and  everything  had  a  place. 

Mrs.  Bane  was  clearly  proud  to  act  as  guide  on  this 


148  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

occasion,  and  Emmie  took  the  instruction  as  easily  and 
naturally  as  she  could.  She  felt  almost  thrilled  at  times, 
and  wished  "  to  look  at  that  again,"  but  checked  herself. 
She  would  have  plenty  of  time  to  see  these  things  when 
Mrs.  Bane  had  gone. 

"  I  expect  I've  missed  telling  you  all,"  said  Mrs.  Bane, 
"  but  if  there's  anything  you  want  to  know  you  can  send 
Ada  or  call.  I  shall  only  be  too  pleased  to  tell  you  any- 
thing I  know." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Emmie.     "  It's  very  kind  of  you." 

"  You're  very  welcome.  You  and  Mr.  Tim  look  very 
happy,  and  I'm  sure  I  wish  you  well.  Of  course,  there's 
Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  .  .  .  well,  perhaps  I'd  bet- 
ter say  nothing.  Least  said,  soonest  mended,  eh?  And 
it  doesn't  do  to  let  your  tongue  run  away  with  you.  The 
master  can  say  things  —  Mr.  Booke,  I  mean  —  but  he  has 
a  sense  of  justice.  As  for  his  sisters  .  .  .  well,  I  could 
always  get  on  with  Mrs.  Grass  .  .  .  but  you'll  get  to 
know  them  soon  enough  —  if  you  don't  know  'em  already. 
Oh!  and  Barley's  our  butcher.  Of  course,  you'll  go 
where  you  like,  but  I  thought  I'd  tell  you.  I  always  get 
my  groceries  from  Cross's,  and  the  milk  will  come  regu- 
lar—  that's  Stone's:  good  milk,  only  he  wants  a  bit  of 
watching  sometimes,  or  he'll  give  you  short  measure.  I 
always  weighed  the  beef,  too,  but  of  course  you'll  do  what 
you  like." 

Mrs.  Bane  talked  a  great  deal,  and  Emmie  was  really 
glad  to  hear  all,  for  the  hints  were  a  guide.  She  began 
to  feel  her  responsibilities  as  Mrs.  Bane  told  her  of  Mr. 
Tim's  likes  and  dislikes,  of  certain  things  she  had  been 
most  careful  to  do  and  of  others  she  had  been  equally 
careful  not  to  do. 

And  in  and  amongst  the  hints,  explanations  and  direc- 
tions, there  came  the  bits  of  gossip  and  intimacies. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  149 

"  Do  you  like  Miss  Booke?  " 

"  I  haven't  seen  much  of  her,"  parried  Emmie. 

"  No.  And  the  more  you  see,  the  less  you'll  want  to 
see.  That  woman!  Only,  don't  ever  say  as  I  said  any- 
thing—  not  that  it  matters.  The  master  always  says 
she's  sour ;  and  sour  she  is.  She'll  tell  you  this  and  that, 
and  make  out  you're  a  perfect  fool,  and  she's  one  that 
never  did  and  can't  do  a  thing  wrong.  That  woman. 
.  .  .  Oh!  and  Ada.  .  .  .  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  speak- 
ing to  her  sharp.  She's  a  good  little  girl,  I  will  say  that 
for  her,  but  she  wants  sharpening  up  now  and  then.  It's 
very  nice  of  you  to  have  her.  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  very  glad,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Well,  I  know  she'll  have  a  nice  home,  and  it  would 
have  been  a  bit  awkward  in  the  new  house,  which  isn't 
so  large  as  this  by  a  long  way.  I  can  easily  manage  it 
with  a  woman  in  once  a  week  for  the  outside  steps  and 
the  scrubbing.  You  know,  I  feel  it  when  I  get  on  my 
knees  ...  at  fifty-six,  cold  stones  tell.  And  another 
thing,  I  can  come  and  help  you  when  you're  preserving 
or  anything  like  that.  Mr.  Tim  likes  black  currant,  and 
I  always  kept  a  pot  or  two  of  that  for  colds;  very  good 
if  you've  anything  the  matter  with  your  throat;  a  table- 
spoonful  in  a  cupful  of  hot  water'll  do  a  world  of  good. 
Mrs.  Sellar  has  been  charing  and  washing  here  for  years. 
Of  course,  you'll  please  yourself,  but  she's  honest  and 
reliable.  She  wants  a  bit  of  watching  when  she's  doing 
the  blankets,  and  I  used  to  give  her  a  hand  with  the 
mangle  —  but  of  course,  you'll  please  yourself.  .  .  ." 

When  Mrs.  Bane  had  gone,  Emmie  felt  in  a  condition 
of  delight,  only  very  slightly  troubled  with  anxiety. 
Somehow  she  felt  she  could  manage.  If  there  was  any 
special  cooking  to  be  done  Mrs.  Bane  would  give  her  a 


150  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

hand,  and  for  the  rest  she  was  confident.  So  far  as 
cleaning  went  she  knew  she  need  have  no  fears. 

"  A  servant ! "  She,  Emmie  Bollins,  with  a  servant. 
.  .  .  That  touched  her.  She  had  not  expected  that  in 
the  early  days,  for  then  she  had  thought  that  she  and 
Tim  would  live  in  a  much  smaller  house  somewhere,  and 
she  would  be  able  to  manage  with  the  occasional  help  of 
the  charwoman.  It  was  because  Mr.  Booke  had  handed 
over  Helston  House  to  Tim,  and  Ada,  who  was  Mrs. 
Bane's  niece,  not  being  able  conveniently  to  go  to  Mr. 
Booke's  new  house,  was  promptly  engaged  by  Tim,  who 
said  "  she  could  help  Emmie." 

Emmie's  sensations  when  Mrs.  Bane  had  gone  were 
particularly  pleasant.  She  had  a  greater  sense  of  actual 
dominion  and  power  than  she  had  ever  had  before.  On 
the  honeymoon  she  had  felt  the  power  latent:  Tim's 
purse  sufficed  to  buy  a  willing  and  almost  obsequious 
service.  But  this  was  the  real  thing.  This  was  her 
home;  she  controlled  it,  she  was  mistress  here.  And 
such  a  home !  .  .  . 

The  possession  of  the  keys  confirmed  her  impressions. 
As  they  rattled  she  could  almost  imagine  she  heard  the 
ringing  of  bells  of  triumph. 

Tim  was  far  less  disturbed,  for  he  had  come  to  an 
accustomed  home,  and  his  chief  thought  was  Emmie. 
He  loved  to  see  her  and  know  she  was  near  him. 

When  he  heard  Mrs.  Bane  go  and  Emmie  did  not  come 
to  him  at  once,  he  went  into  the  kitchen,  which  Emmie 
was  regarding  with  an  air  of  great  admiration.  It  was 
so  large,  so  comfortable,  so  light,  so  pleasant,  for  build- 
ers in  Ganton  knew  in  those  days  that  the  occupiers, 
even  of  big  houses,  passed  more  time  in  the  kitchen  than 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  151 

in  any  other  room  in  the  house ;  it  was,  in  fact,  the  living- 
room. 

Mr.  Booke  had  used  the  dining-room  because  he  had 
a  housekeeper,  who  naturally  had  to  have  the  kitchen  as 
her  domain.  Had  his  wife  been  alive,  they  would  have 
lived  mostly  in  the  kitchen. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  Tim  asked.  "  Having  a  look 
round?" 

"  Yes." 

He  came  up  to  her  and  put  an  arm  round  her. 

"  Mrs.  Bane  shown  you  everything?  " 

She  looked  at  him  winningly ;  this  power  to  attract  her 
husband  gave  her  great  pleasure.  She  nestled  to  him. 

"  Most  things.  I  wanted  to  know  where  the  things 
were." 

"  You'll  soon  find  that  out.  And  you  can  put  them 
where  you  like,  for  that  matter.  Beginning  to  feel  at 
home?" 

She  looked  at  him,  one  might  almost  say  lovingly,  cer- 
tainly happily,  and  nodded. 

"  You'll  soon  get  used  to  everything,"  he  said. 

And  truly  Emmie  soon  did  get  used  to  everything. 

She  felt  a  little  strange;  more,  perhaps,  than  a  little, 
when  she  got  up  the  next  morning  in  the  nice,  big,  com- 
fortable bedroom  at  Helston  House. 

She  was  not  at  a  hotel  now,  where  she  would  naturally 
expect  her  surroundings  to  be  of  a  mildly  luxurious  order, 
but  in  her  own  home,  and  she  put  her  feet  on  a  well- 
carpeted  floor;  there  was  ample  room  to  move  about, 
plenty  of  space  for  her  clothes,  and  they  were  in  drawers 
and  wardrobe  most  conveniently  placed;  the  dressing- 
table  was  a  handsome  piece  of  furniture,  and  the  whole 
invited  to  neatness  and  a  good  appearance. 

Ada  lit  the  fire,  and  Emmie  was  to  cook  the  breakfast. 


152  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

She  got  up  just  a  little  earlier  than  was  quite  necessary, 
for  she  did  not  wish  to  make  Tim  wait,  and  was  most 
anxious  to  acquit  herself  well. 

Tim  turned  over  lazily. 

"  What's  up  ?  "  he  said.     "  Time  to  get  up  ?  " 

"  No,  you  needn't  get  up  for  a  bit.  I  want  to  see  what 
Ada  is  doing." 

Tim  did  not  answer.  He  watched  Emmie  with  a  gor- 
geous admiration.  She  moved  about  quickly  and  alertly, 
and  seemed  full  of  vitality.  Before  she  put  on  her  bodice 
she  brushed  her  thick  black  hair,  bending  her  head  this 
way  and  that.  Then  she  coiled  it  quickly,  stuck  some 
pins  in  it  and  gave  a  quick  glance  to  see  if  it  was  pre- 
sentable. At  her  old  home,  she  had  gone  down  to  break- 
fast in  a  very  untidy  fashion,  but  she  had  more  sense 
than  to  do  that  now. 

"  Feel  like  work?  "  said  Tim. 

She  turned. 

"  Thought  you'd  gone  to  sleep  again." 

"  Did  you?  "     He  sounded  playful. 

"  Two  eggs  with  your  bacon  ?     Work's  all  right." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  do  you  like  some  bread  in  the  fat  —  fried,  I 
mean?  " 

Tim  jumped  out  of  bed,  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her. 

"  I  like  owt,"  he  said,  "  if  you  give  it  me." 

"  Ada'll  hear  you,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  care  a  brass  farthing  what  Ada  hears." 

"  Let  me  go,  Tim,"  she  said,  really  anxious  to  do  her 
work.  "Are  you  going  to  get  up?  Because  if  you're 
not,  get  into  bed  again ;  you'll  catch  cold  standing  in  your 
nightshirt  like  that." 

"  I'll  get  up,"  he  said. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  153 

As  Emmie  went  downstairs,  she  felt  she  was  happier 
than  she  had  ever  imagined.  To  be  loved  as  Tim  loved 
her,  in  this  beautiful  home,  too! 

But  the  moment  she  set  foot  in  the  kitchen  she  became 
intent  on  her  work. 

Ada  was  outside,  cleaning  the  steps  that  led  into  the 
yard.  The  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate,  which  was  black 
and  shiny,  with  the  steel  parts  beautifully  polished.  The 
cleanliness  struck  Emmie.  They  hadn't  been  dirty  at 
home;  she  never  thought  so,  but  this  was  different. 
There  were  no  loose  ends  here,  slovenliness  did  not  show 
its  head.  And  what  a  splendid  grate! 

She  got  out  the  bacon  and  the  frying  pan,  which  hung 
on  a  nail  over  the  sink,  was  clean  and  fit  for  instant  use. 
Emmie  remembered  that  theirs  usually  rested  in  the  coal 
place  and  had,  as  often  as  not,  bits  of  coal  in  it,  which 
were  served  up  with  the  bacon,  and  accepted  as  naturally 
as  the  rind. 

As  she  cooked  the  breakfast,  she  went  to  the  dining- 
room  and  saw  that  Ada  had  laid  the  table.  Emmie 
thought  quickly :  We  could  have  managed  in  the  kitchen. 
...  In  winter  it  would  save  a  fire,  too,  some  coals  and 
work.  .  .  .  And  then  the  picture  of  her  and  her  hus- 
band sitting  in  the  dining-room  to  breakfast  while  Ada, 
the  maid,  answered  the  call  of  the  bell,  tickled  her. 
She  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  works,  and  thought  if 
some  of  those  in  the  trimming-room  could  see  her!  .  .  . 
But  she  bustled  about.  The  bacon  was  done  to  a  turn. 
She  broke  the  eggs  deftly,  and  hesitated  about  having 
one  herself,  thinking  the  bacon,  with  a  piece  of  fried 
bread,  would  do  for  her.  But  she  quickly  decided  for  the 
egg;  she  could  afford  that.  She'd  do  with  one  rasher 
of  bacon  and  Tim  could  have  two.  She  was  rather  sur- 
prised that  she  had  to  be  coming  to  little  discussions  at 


154  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

every  other  moment.  She  had  thought  things  would  de- 
cide themselves,  once  she  was  settled.  She  w<asn't  trou- 
bled ;  she  could  always  make  up  her  mind. 

She  heard  Tim  come  downstairs. 

"Ready  for  your  breakfast?"  she  said,  going  to  the 
door  of  the  dining-room. 

"  I  am  that,  if  it's  ready  for  me.     No  hurry." 

"  It's  ready."  And  then  she  found  herself  once  more 
questioning  herself:  should  she  take  off  her  apron  for 
breakfast  or  not?  She  took  it  off. 

At  first,  economy  of  washing  (a  thing  ingrained  into 
her  at  home),  suggested  she  should  apportion  Tim's 
breakfast  and  hers  on  separate  plates  and  carry  them  into 
the  dining-room ;  but  she  remembered  that  Mrs.  Bane 
hadn't  done  that  with  the  fish.  So  she  put  all  the  bacon 
and  eggs  on  one  dish  and  set  them  before  Tim.  She 
poured  out  the  tea. 

"  Well,  I've  had  a  jolly  good  breakfast,"  said  Tim,  as 
he  rolled  up  his  table  napkin. 

"  Have  you  ?  "  said  Emmie,  very  pleased. 

"  I  have.  And  now  I'll  go  and  do  some  work.  I 
expect  f ather'll  pop  in :  he's  sure  to  come  to  the 
works." 

Emmie  had  to  think  of  what  to  do  and  the  order  in 
which  it  should  be  done.  There  was  the  house  to  clean 
and  the  dinner  to  cook.  She  had  made  up  her  mind 
about  the  dinner.  Lancashire  hot  pot  and  rice  pudding. 
She  wasn't  going  to  tell  Tim  what  his  meals  would  con- 
sist of;  she  would  surprise  him.  She  had  not  had  too 
much  practise  in  cooking,  and  her  choice  of  dishes  was 
not  very  varied;  but  with  a  joint  on  Sunday  and  cold 
meat  Monday  and  a  hash  or  stew  or  something  of  the 
kind  on  Wednesday,  she  felt  she  could  manage  on  Thurs- 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  155 

day,  Friday  and  Saturday.  Folk  lived  plainly  in  Gan- 
ton. 

She  had,  however,  provided  herself  with  a  cookery 
book,  but  felt  she  did  not  want  anybody  to  know  she  used 
it.  She  did  not  mind  Ada,  but  she  preferred,  for  the 
moment,  that  no  grown-up  people  saw  her.  They'd  prob- 
ably say  she  knew  nothing,  and  could  do  nothing.  .  .  . 

She  took  the  book  out  of  her  box,  and  found  a  con- 
venient linen  drawer  in  the  kitchen  in  which  to  keep  it. 
She  consulted  it  now,  in  the  making  of  the  hot  pot,  and 
found  that  the  compilers  apparently  didn't  know  any- 
thing about  the  Lancashire  dish.  When  she  turned  to 
the  index,  she  saw  the  variety  of  the  contents  was  as- 
tounding, for  the  catalogue  began  at  "  Absesses  "  and 
ended  at  "  Yearly  Tenancies  "  and  "  Yorkshire  pudding." 
Emmie  put  the  book  away  with  some  scorn ;  it  wasn't  any 
good  to-day. 

She  felt  the  responsibility  of  her  position.  She  had 
to  manage  that  house,  including  Ada,  and  see  that  Tim 
was  well  looked  after  and  that  the  domestic  arrange- 
ments escaped  adverse  criticism. 

She  quickly  made  up  her  mind  about  certain  things: 
the  bedroom,  the  cooking  of  the  dinner,  the  cleaning  of 
the  dining-room.  She  put  on  a  big  apron,  set  Ada  to 
wash  up  the  breakfast  things  and  made  the  bed  her- 
self. .  .  . 

As  she  flung  back  the  bedclothes,  she  thought  of  her 
new  life.  What  a  difference  from  trimming !  This  was 
life.  One  day  you  lived  in  a  small  house,  putting  up  with 
all  sorts  of  makeshifts  and  contrivances  and  inconven- 
iences, and  the  next  you  were  married,  mated  to  a  man, 
had  a  home  and  the  whole  character  of  your  life  was 
changed ! 

She  gloried  in  the  change. 


156  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Ada  came  to  her. 

"  Miss  Booke's  downstairs." 

Emmie  looked  up. 

"  Miss  Booke.  .  .  .  Does  she  want  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  All  right.  .  .  .  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute." 

Ada  turned  to  go. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "     Emmie  almost  whispered. 

"  In  the  dining-room." 

"  Right." 

Emmie  wondered:  Miss  Booke  .  .  .  what  has  she 
come  for?  See  what  she  can,  eh?  She  pulled  a  face, 
then  went  to  the  glass  and  saw  her  hair  was  tidy.  Should 
she  go  down  as  she  was  or  take  off  her  apron?  As  she 
was  —  why  not?  It  was  morning,  and  if  Miss  Booke 
or  anybody  else  called  in  the  morning  they  would  know 
she  was  working. 

Emmie  went  downstairs. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  said. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Miss  Booke  amicably,  coming 
forward  with  hand  outstretched. 

They  shook  hands.  Emmie  wondered  if  she  was  go- 
ing to  be  kissed,  and  felt  sure  Miss  Booke  thought  of  it 
for  one  moment,  and  then  decided  not  to. 

"  I  was  just  on  my  wray  to  the  butcher's,  and  as  I  knew 
you  were  back,  I  thought  I'd  just  look  in  and  see  how 
you  were,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

Emmie  nodded  and  smiled. 

"  You're  looking  well,"  said  Miss  Booke.  "  Did  you 
enjoy  your  trip?  " 

"  Very  much,  thanks." 

"  Nice  place.     What  was  the  hotel  like?" 

"  Very  comfortable." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  157 

"  Yes,  I  thought  it  would  be.  I  don't  suppose  you've 
stayed  often  at  hotels,  have  you?" 

"  Not  often." 

"Your  first,  wasn't  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  It  makes  a  difference,  marrying  somebody  like  Tim. 
You're  lucky." 

Emmie  pressed  her  lips  together. 

"  This  nice  house,  too,"  continued  Miss  Booke.  "  It 
wants  a  bit  of  looking  after." 

"  All  houses  do,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  find  very  many  like  this  in  Gan- 
ton,"  said  Miss  Booke  quickly.  "  And  it's  such  a  change 
for  you  —  after  that  little  house  you  lived  in  in  Silton 
Street  You'll  want  a  few  hints  now  and  again.  .  .  . 
Well,  as  you're  Tim's  wife,  I'll  help  you  what  I  can. 
What  are  you  getting  him  for  dinner  to-day?  " 

Emmie  paused. 

"  I  think  I  can  manage  that,"  she  said. 

"I  should  hope  so,  indeed;  I  should  that.  If  you 
couldn't  cook  him  a  dinner,  it  would  be  something.  But 
he  wants  nice  cooking  and  nice  serving.  You  know  what 
would  do  in  a,  er  —  well,  in  a  tiny  place,  won't  do  for 
Tim  Booke." 

"  No.  But,  of  course,  if  Tim  wants  anything,  I  think 
he's  old  enough  to  speak  for  himself,  don't  you?  " 

Miss  Booke  smiled  sourly. 

"  Some  men  don't  speak  for  themselves :  they  put  up 
with  things.  It's  sometimes  the  duty  of  relatives  to  see 
they're  not  put  on." 

"  Have  you  come,"  said  Emmie,  gathering  courage, 
"  to  see  Tim  isn't  put  on?  " 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  returned  Miss  Booke.  "And  I 
don't  think  it's  nice  of  you  to  put  it  that  way.  I'm  Tim's 


158  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

aunt.  I  can  surely  say  something  for  his  good  and  yours 
—  and  I  shall.  I  think  it's  the  duty  of  relatives  to  say 
the  word  in  due  season.  Prevention's  better  than  cure. 
Besides,  you  might  easily  blunder,  having  just  given  up 
trimming  to  come  and  manage  this  house.  Oh!  I'm 
not  one  to  let  things  happen  for  want  of  a  bit  of  plain 
speaking.  I  believe  in  speaking  out.  There's  many  a 
man  and  woman  gone  wrong  because  somebody  was 
afraid  to  say  the  right  word  at  the  right  moment.  You 
can't  expect  to  do  things  exactly  as  they  should  be  done 
all  in  a  minute  —  how  can  you?  You  were  trimming  a 
fortnight  ago,  and  now  you're  housekeeping  to  a  Booke. 
...  I  assure  you  I  shan't  keep  silent  if  I  see  things  aren't 
what  they  ought  to  be." 

Emmie  went  red,  then  white,  and  swallowed  with  diffi- 
culty. 

Miss  Booke  stood  up  rigidly. 

Emmie  preserved  silence. 

Miss  Booke  said :  "  I'm  quite  willing  to  be  friends. 
I'm  willing  to  help  you.  You're  married  now,  and  that 
can't  be  undone.  You're  one  of  the  family,  and  you'll 
be  expected  to  behave  accordingly.  If  I  offer  to  tell  you 
anything  that  isn't  pleasant,  it  will  be  entirely  for  your 
own  good  and  out  of  a  strict  sense  of  duty.  Nothing 
will  stop  me  doing  what  I  consider  to  be  my  duty." 

Still  Emmie  was  silent. 

"  I  suppose  Tim's  in  the  works,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

"  Yes." 

"  Has  this  room  been  done  yet  ?  " 

Emmie  drew  herself  up. 

"  I'm  very  busy,"  she  said.  "  I've  got  a  lot  of  work 
to  do  and  I  don't  want  Tim  to  have  to  wait  for  his  din- 
ner. You  can  sit  down  if  you  like,  but  if  you'll  excuse 
me,  I'll  get  on  with  my  work." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  159 

Miss  Booke  sniffed. 

"  I  don't  want  to  sit  down.  And  I  don't  want  to  in- 
terfere with  him,  let  alone  make  you  late  with  Tim's 
dinner.  But  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have 
spared  a  few  minutes  to  entertain  your  husband's  aunt 
when  she  called.  However,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you're 
working,  and  I  hope  you'll  do  your  best  to  make  Tim 
a  good  wife."  She  turned  to  go.  "  You  and  Tim,  now 
that  you're  married,  must  come  and  have  tea  with  me 
some  Saturday  or  Sunday.  .  .  ." 

When  Miss  Booke  had  gone,  Emmie  sat  down  and  was 
ready  to  weep.  She  was  literally  on  the  verge  of  tears. 
They  welled  in  her  eyes  —  and  then  she  smiled  and  got 
up.  "The  old  cat!"  she  said.  "The  old  cat! 
Well.  .  .  ."  And  then  she  was  near  tears  once  more. 
To  be  talked  to  like  that.  A  perfect  humiliation!  .  .  . 
What  was  she  getting  for  Tim's  dinner?  And  that 
room.  .  .  .  Emmie  looked  round;  it  appeared  tidy. 
Then  she  looked  on  the  mantelshelf  —  dust!  It  was 
there,  plain  enough  —  dust !  There  was  a  mark  where  a 
ringer  had  been.  Oh !  the  prying  thing !  The  interfering 
creature ! 

Emmie  felt  very  cross  abo'ut  that  dust.  The  room 
hadn't  been  done,  and  now  Miss  Booke  would  perhaps 
think  it  had,  and  that  Emmie  was  dirty. 

Emmie  felt  furious.  Tackled  like  that,  too.  Just  be- 
cause she  had  been  a  trimmer ! 

She  broke  down  then.  She  wept  bitterly  and  choked 
her  sobs  in  her  apron.  It  wasn't  fair  saying  things  to  her 
like  that.  She  was  doing  her  best;  she  would  do  her 
best  .  .  .  just  because  she  had  lived  in  a  little  house  and 
been  a  trimmer  and  had  married  Tim.  ...  He  had 
wanted  her.  .  .  .  He'd  run  after  her  more  than  she'd 
run  after  him. 


160  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Emmie  stopped  crying.  The  emotion  ceased  to  shake 
her. 

She  was  married ;  they  couldn't  alter  that.  .  .  .  What 
did  it  matter  what  Miss  Booke  said? 

She  looked  at  the  ring  on  her  finger:  it  comforted  her. 
Married.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Timothy  Booke.  .  .  .  No,  not  all 
the  Bookes  in  the  world  could  alter  that.  And  what  was 
more,  she  —  Emmie  —  was  not  going  to  be  lectured  by 
them,  either.  If  Miss  Booke  or  Mrs.  Holten  started  that 
game  they'd  find  some  one  else  could  play  it  as  well  as 
they.  .  .  . 

Emmie  got  up  and  went  into  the  kitchen,  where  Ada 
was  wiping  pots. 

"Finished,  Ada?" 

"  Nearly,"  said  Ada  faintly,  as  if  she  had  washed  away 
her  energy  with  the  dirt  on  the  dishes. 

"  Well,  when  you've  done  that,  do  the  dining-room. 
Put  plenty  of  tea  leaves  on  the  floor  and  sweep  it  well, 
and  see  there  isn't  a  speck  of  dust  anywhere  when  you've 
finished." 

Ada  looked  up  and  nodded  feebly. 

Emmie  went  upstairs  to  finish  the  bedroom,  thinking 
all  the  time  of  Miss  Booke  and  her  tongue  —  and  the 
stair  rods.  She  stopped  to  examine  them,  three-cornered 
things  looking  so  solid,  so  different  from  the  thin  things 
they  had  at  home,  in  Silton.  .  .  . 

The  next  minute  as  she  shook  the  bolsters  and  put  them 
back  in  their  place  she  was  singing : 

"  White  wings  they  never  grow  weary 
They  carry  me  cheerily  over  the  foam.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EVERY  succeeding  day  seemed  to  Emmie  a  day  of 
happiness.  This  delightful  atmosphere  that  seemed 
to  surround  her  refused  to  leave  her.  Tim  as  a  hus- 
band was  glorious;  married  life  was  glorious;  the  new 
home  was  glorious;  life  was  a  glorious  reality. 

Tim  was  happy  too,  and  his  happiness  reflected  on 
Emmie,  though  it  was,  in  a  way,  not  equal  to  the  emo- 
tional intensity  she  felt  on  her  own  account. 

Emmie,  cooking  breakfast,  sweeping,  bed-making,  dust- 
ing, was  Emmie,  happy  and  radiantly  content.  When 
she  walked  out  and  people  nodded  to  her  or  spoke,  she 
had  more  content  than  self-consciousness  about  her,  even 
though  she  felt  they  were  saying  "  Mrs.  Tim  Booke.  .  .  ." 

Her  mother  and  sister  called  one  evening  at  Helston 
House,  and  Emmie  showed  them  over  the  place,  opening 
drawers  here  and  cupboards  there,  delighting  to  show 
them  all  the  fine  things  and  contrivances.  Mrs.  Bollins 
moved  about  in  a  state  of  grave  elation.  Her  daughter 
was  mistress  here.  .  .  . 

Sarah  was  impressed  to  the  point  of  envy.  The  com- 
ments, at  times,  were  from  a  Silton  Street  point  of  view. 

"  This  house  and  all  this  furniture  will  want  a  lot  of 
looking  after.  .  .  .  Think  of  the  windows.  .  .  .  And  the 
carpets.  .  .  .  The  curtains  alone,  for  that  matter.  .  .  . 
It  isn't  all  honey,  marrying  a  Booke,"  said  Sarah,  just  a 
little  willing  to  see  the  fly  in  the  ointment. 

"  No.  But  you  don't  get  honey  without  doing  some- 
thing for  it,"  said  Emmie. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  like  a  big  house  like  this," 

161 


i62  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Sarah  said,  shaking  her  head  as  if  she  were  somewhat 
in  awe. 

"  I  can  manage  all  right,"  said  Emmie.  "  It's  only  get- 
ting used  to  it." 

"  You'll  manage,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins,  "  with  Ada.  You 
must  see  she  works.  And  a  charwoman  for  your  wash- 
ing. .  .  .  You're  lucky,  Emmie." 

Emmie  shook  herself  confidently. 

Mr.  Booke  called  almost  daily.  He  did  not  stay  long, 
but  he  came  in  familiarly  through  the  yard  and  kitchen 
door.  Emmie  felt  he  was  beginning  to  like  her,  though 
he  never  said  anything  definite  in  that  respect.  He  looked 
at  her  critically  very  often,  and  quietly  drew  her  out,  as 
if  he  would  try  to  probe  her  heart  and  head. 

She  liked  him  because,  although  he  could  say  sharp  and 
bitter  things  if  he  chose,  he  did  not  say  them  to  her.  He 
walked  into  the  kitchen  when  she  was  cooking. 

"  Morning,  Emmie." 

"  Good  morning."     She  was  very  pleasant. 

"  Getting  your  husband's  dinner  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Won't  you  sit  down  ?  " 

"  I  must  be  off  in  a  minute." 

But  he  sat  down. 

She  went  on  with  her  preparations. 

"  Managing  all  right?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  and  Emmie  looked  at 
him  in  that  curiously  attractive  feminine  way  of  hers. 
She  caught  his  eye  and  smiled. 

"  Ay  .  .  ."  he  said.  "  Well,  I'll  be  off.  ...  Just 
came  in  to  say  good  morning." 

"  You're  in  a  hurry." 

"  No.     But  I  don't  want  to  hinder  you.     I'll  pop  in 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  163 

at  night  again,  when  you're  not  so  busy.  .  .  .  Morning." 

"  Good  morning.  .  .  .  Come  and  have  some  dinner 
when  you  want,"  she  said.  "  You're  always  welcome  — 
only  let  me  know  in  time."  Emmie  gave  the  invitation 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  and  Mr.  Booke  was  pleased. 

"  I've  got  a  dinner  being  got  ready  at  home.  .  .  . 
Thank  you  all  the  same.  .  .  .  I'll  have  a  cup  o'  tea  with 
you  now  and  again." 

"  Do." 

And  when  he  had  gone  Emmie  thought  of  the  situation. 
Here  she  was  inviting  Mr.  Booke  to  dinner,  and  telling 
him  to  come  to  tea.  .  .  .  Well,  what  was  that  ?  Nothing 
now. 

She  had  little  trials  with  other  members  of  the  Booke 
family.  Mrs.  Grass  was  pleasant,  asked  her  all  sorts  of 
questions  about  the  honeymoon  and  the  house  and  her- 
self. But  she  was  friendly,  and  Emmie  was  glad  to  gos- 
sip. 

Mrs.  Holten  called,  but  kept  a  kind  of  superior  atmos- 
phere about  her,  even  though  what  she  said  was  not  un- 
pleasant or  annoying.  She  proceeded  a  great  deal  by 
catechism  and  made  Emmie  feel  that  she  had  to  give  an 
account  of  herself,  but  the  answers  were,  for  the  most 
part,  received  with  a  certain  tolerance. 

Emmie  said  to  Tim: 

"  Mrs.  Holten's  been." 

"  Well,  and  how  did  you  get  on  with  Aunt  Jane?  " 

There  was  a  hinted  chuckle  in  Tim's  question,  as  there 
was  a  suspicious  humour  in  Emmie's  tone. 

"  All  right." 

"  All  right,  eh  ?  "  He  filled  his  pipe  and  looked  at  her 
with  affection  as  his  eyes  twinkled. 

Emmie  screwed  up  her  mouth  and  smiled. 


164  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  She  wanted  to  know  what  they  charged  us  at  the 
hotel." 

"  Good  Heavens!     Is  she  thinking  of  going?  " 

"  And  what  we  had  for  dinner." 

He  lit  his  pipe. 

"  And  if  I  get  my  meat  from  Barley's." 

He  smiled  and  puffed. 

"  And  if  Cross  was  our  grocer.  And  if  Stone  still 
served  us  with  milk.  And  if  I  thought  the  grate  was  a 
good  one.  She  said  she  reckoned  it  one  of  the  best  in 
Ganton.  And  whether  I  was  going  to  wash  Monday  or 
Tuesday,  and  if  Mrs. " 

"  That'll  do,"  said  Tim. 

Emmie  smiled. 

"  That's  Aunt  Jane  all  over,"  said  Tim.  "  You  should 
tell  her  to  go  to  Owdham  when  she  asks  so  many  ques- 
tions." 

"Would  you?" 

"  I  would  that" 

"  You  wouldn't." 

"Wouldn't  I?" 

"  No." 

"  Come  here."  Emmie  had  pushed  her  face  very  near 
to  Tim's,  in  a  most  provoking  and  tempting  wray. 

Tim  stretched  out  his  arms  and  Emmie  ran  behind  a 
chair.  Tim  followed. 

"  I'll  show  you  what  I  will  do,"  he  said. 

Emmie  gave  a  tiny  little  cry,  and  then  put  her  hand 
to  her  mouth.  Tim  had  caught  her  now  and  drawn  her 
to  him. 

"  Ada,"  she  whispered. 

"  What's  Ada,"  said  Tim  scornfully.  "  Now  say  what 
you  said  before."  He  held  her  tight  with  one  arm  and 
lifted  her  chin. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  165 

She  loved  to  be  held  like  this.  She  enjoyed  the  phys- 
ical contact  herself,  as  well  as  relished  the  sensation  that 
Tim  loved  it  too.  She  looked  at  him  roguishly. 

"  I'll  say  what  I  want,"  she  said  tantalisingly. 

He  made  a  pretence  of  hitting  her.  Then  he  turned 
up  her  face  and  kissed  her. 

"  Th'art  a  bonny  'un,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  she  loved. 

Then  she  threw  an  arm  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"Aren't  we  soft?  "  she  said,  a  moment  afterwards. 

"  I'm  not,"  he  said.     "  You  might  be." 

She  laughed. 

"  You're  the  worst,"  she  retorted.  "  Oh !  And  there's 
something  else :  we're  to  go  to  supper  to  your  Aunt  Jane's 
on  Sunday." 

"Oh!  damn!—" 

"Sh!  You  naughty!  About  your  Aunt  Jane, 
too.  .  .  ." 

"  Well.  .  .  .  Oh !  well,  we  might  as  well  get  it  over. 
I  reckon  we'll  have  to  go  round  and  then  have  them  here, 
and  then " 

"Well?" 

"  Then  they  can  go  to  Owdham,  for  all  I  care." 

But  the  visit  to  Mrs.  Holten's  was  by  no  means  a  casual 
affair  for  Emmie.  She  did  not  tell  Tim  of  her  anxieties, 
though  he  probably  guessed  them,  imagining  the  visit 
as  a  worry  to  her. 

Emmie  both  wanted  to  go  and  wished  to  escape  the 
visit.  She  wanted  to  go  because  she  was  Mrs.  Timothy 
Booke  and  desired  to  do  all  that  such  a  personage  ought 
to  do,  and  to  fill  her  position  adequately.  But  she  was 
still  liable  to  smart  under  the  tongues  of  Mrs.  Holten  and 
Miss  Booke  if  they  were  inclined  for  adverse  criticism 
or  lecturing. 

Emmie  took  care  over  her  appearance,  for  she  relied 


166  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

instinctively  for  a  certain  amount  of  sympathy  or  respect 
on  the  "  pretty  woman  neatly  dressed."  Also,  she  knew 
that  untidiness  would  simply  plunge  her  into  the  bog  of 
gibes. 

She  was  quite  happy,  however,  as  she  walked  out  of 
Helston  House  beside  her  husband.  She  was  very 
pleased  to  be  seen  beside  Tim,  and  if  she  assumed  a  digni- 
fied air  she  was  sufficiently  self-conscious  to  think  of  her- 
self as  Mrs.  Timothy  Booke  and  to  fancy  that  those  who 
saw  her  recognised  her  in  that  capacity. 

As  she  walked  up  Silton  Street  past  her  own  home,  she 
nodded  to  her  mother,  who  was  sitting  on  a  chair  near 
the  door. 

Mrs.  Bollins  said  "Hello!" 

"  Can't  stop,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Enjoying  a  bit  of  fresh  air?  "  said  Tim  to  his  mother- 
in-law. 

"  Yes  ...  a  bit,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins,  coming  to  the 
door. 

"  Father  and  Sarah  out  ?  "  said  Emmie. 

"  Your  father's  gone  a  walk ;  Sarah's  upstairs." 

Emmie  smiled  and  nodded.  Mrs.  Bollins  did  the 
same. 

"  G'night,"  said  Tim. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins,  and  she  stood  at  the 
door  of  the  little  house,  watching  her  son-in-law  in  frock 
coat  and  silk  hat  walk  beside  her  daughter  fashionably 
dressed.  Neighbours  also  came  to  the  door  and  looked. 

Mrs.  Loman,  across  the  road,  shouted: 

"  She  looks  very  well." 

"  Yes." 

"  Ay.  .  .  .  Nice  couple." 

"  Yes." 

"  She  can  dress,  too." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  167 

"  She'd  always  good  taste." 

"  And  she  needn't  be  afraid  of  a  shilling  or  two,  either, 
now." 

"  No." 

Emmie  turned  round  and  waved  her  hand  to  her 
mother.  She  knew  she  would  be  watching,  and  was 
pleased  to  see  there  were  others  watching  too. 

The  Holtens  lived  in  Stockport  Road  in  a  semi-de- 
tached house  of  unpretentious  appearance,  having  a  small 
garden  in  front,  and  a  fairly  large  one  behind.  It  was 
furnished  with  some  regard  to  value,  though  lacked  the 
simplicity  that  characterised  Helston  House,  perhaps  be- 
cause of  Mr.  Booke's  dislike  for  "  fal-lals  " —  a  term  he 
used  to  designate  small  ornaments  and  merely  ornamental 
articles  of  furniture.  But  Mrs.  Holten  was  house  proud. 
She  was  a  capable  manager  and  would  almost  invite  you 
to  look  round  and  see  if  you  could  find  any  dust  where 
it  ought  not  to  be. 

The  maid  gave  Emmie  a  hint  of  the  capability  in  the 
place.  She  opened  the  door  as  it  ought  to  be  opened  to 
guests,  not  in  Ada's  timid,  suspicious  way.  Emmie  noted 
this:  she  must  drill  Ada  —  if  Ada  could  be  drilled! 
Tim's  hat  and  stick  were  taken  from  him,  a  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  then  Emmie  found  herself  responding 
to  the  maid's  "Will  you  come  this  way,  please?"  and 
walking  upstairs. 

Emmie  went  with  dignity,  but  cast  glances  from  left 
to  right.  Everything  certainly  did  look  clean. 

The  maid  knocked  at  the  bedroom  door  and  a  voice 
called  out,  "  Come  in." 

"  Mrs.  Timothy,"  said  the  maid. 

Emmie  walked  in. 

"  Here  you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  advancing  and 


168  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

shaking  hands  and  then  kissing  her  without  hesitation. 
"  Tim  downstairs  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Miss  Booke  was  there.  She  also  kissed  Emmie  because 
her  sister  had,  and  Mrs.  Grass  kissed  her  willingly. 

Mrs.  Grass  turned  to  Miss  Booke  and  continued  a  con- 
versation. ..."  So  I  told  her  if  that  sort  of  thing  was 
to  go  on.  .  .  ." 

"  That's  a  very  nice  hat,  Emmie,"  whispered  Mrs.  Hoi- 
ten,  as  Emmie  put  it  on  the  bed,  noticing  the  fine  bed- 
spread and  the  bonnets  of  Mrs.  Grass  and  Miss  Booke. 

"  Yes.     I  like  it  myself,"  said  Emmie. 

"H'm.  ...  Get  it  in  Manchester?" 

"Yes  —  at  Madame  Marie's." 

*'I  know  —  Oxford  Street.  She's  dear,  isn't  she? 
How  much  did  you  pay  for  it  ?  " 

"  Thirty-five  shillings." 

"What!" 

The  moment  Emmie  heard  that  exclamation  she  knew 
she  had  blundered.  Why  hadn't  she  said  twenty-five,  or 
that  she  didn't  remember. 

"  Thirty-five  shillings,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  and  she 
turned  towards  her  sisters.  "  I  don't  wonder  it's  a  nice 
hat."  The  tone  had  a  lilting  stab. 

"  Thirty-five  shillings,"  repeated  Miss  Booke,  with  the 
air  of  the  shocked  and  pained.  "Thirty-five  —  you'll 
ruin  Tim  if  you  go  on  at  that  rate." 

"  Tim  didn't  buy  it,"  said  Emmie,  a  trifle  quickly. 

"I  didn't  say  he  did,"  replied  Miss  Booke;  "  I  said  if 
you  go  on  at  that  rate." 

Mrs.  Grass  said  quickly :  "  I  suppose  it  was  for  the 
honeymoon,  eh,  Emmie." 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  very  quietly  and  feeling  badly 
treated.  Just  because  she  had  spent  all  that  money  to 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  169 

please  them  —  to  have  a  hat  fit  for  the  occasion  and  the 
family,  and  now  they  criticised  it!  ...  If  she'd  bought 
a  cheap  one  they'd  have  said  she  disgraced  them.  .  .  . 
She  was  flushed. 

"  Of  course,  it's  very  nice,  very  nice,  indeed,"  said 
Mrs.  Holten,  who  wished  to  smooth  Emmie,  now  that 
Miss  Booke  had  rushed  in  with  her  austere  battery. 
"  Have  you  and  Tim  had  a  walk?  or  have  you  just  come 
from  home  ?  " 

"  We've  come  straight  from  home,"  said  Emmie,  with 
a  certain  dignity. 

"  I  was  wondering  if  you'd  got  a  good  appetite."  Mrs. 
Holten  now  spoke  very  friendly. 

"  Emmie's  young,"  said  Mrs.  Grass.  "  I  expect  she 
always  has  a  good  appetite.  I  remember  how  I  used  to 
eat  at  her  age.  I  couldn't  do  it  now ;  don't  want  to,  for 
that  matter,  for  I'm  quite  fat  enough." 

"  You're  not  fat,  Sophia,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

"  Fat  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  Well,  come  on  downstairs,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  or 
they'll  think  we've  forgotten  them." 

Emmie  wiped  out  —  at  any  rate,  for  the  moment  — 
the  little  incident  that  had  ruffled  her.  As  she  was  going 
downstairs,  Mrs.  Grass  put  her  arm  round  her  waist  and 
nodded  pleasantly. 

"  You  must  come  and  have  supper  with  us  next,"  she 
said. 

"  Thank  you,"  murmured  Emmie,  and  she  felt  happier 
at  once  as  the  scent  of  cigars  and  the  sound  of  men's 
voices  reached  her.  She  had  the  feeling  of  secure  se- 
renity in  the  presence  of  men. 

And  they  rose  to  greet  her  most  cordially. 

Mr.  Booke  just  shook  hands  and  nodded,  but  he  was 
genuinely  hearty.  Mr.  Holten  was  most  polite. 


170  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Well,  Emmie  .  .  .  very  glad  to  see  you.  The  latest 
addition  to  the  family  .  .  .  you're  very  welcome." 

Mr.  Grass  nodded  very  affably.  "How  are  you? 
Haven't  seen  you  since  you  came  back." 

Emmie  felt  now  very  comfortable.  She  sat  near  Tim, 
and  the  conversation  launched  at  them  first  dissolved  in 
laughter  and  good  humour  into  other  channels. 

The  men  discussed  business  and  politics  and  cricket. 
The  ladies  talked  of  domestic  affairs  and  other  people. 
Emmie  listened  and  joined  in  the  conversation  when  she 
was  appealed  to  and  felt,  on  the  whole,  quite  comfortable. 

And  all  the  time  she  kept  noting  ornaments  on  the 
mantelshelf  —  two  Dresden  figures  which  Emmie  liked, 
but  thought  cheap,  and  a  fairly  large  dark  blue  ornament 
which  she  liked,  and  a  Sheraton  clock  which  she  consid- 
ered neat,  the  overmantel  which  matched  the  clock  —  and 
then  she  noticed  the  furniture  matched  the  clock  too. 
She  thought  that  very  smart,  very  clever.  .  .  .  She  won- 
dered if  the  clock  had  been  bought  with  the  chairs  and 
sofa  or  got  separately.  And  the  curtains,  deftly  hung 
from  the  mantel-board  arrested  her  attention.  She  saw 
how  they  were  done  .  .  .  yes,  she  would  do  hers  like 
that  —  she  didn't  care  for  that  browny-red  colour,  be- 
sides, it  wouldn't  go  with  their  furniture.  .  .  .  This  was 
a  very  nice  room,  too.  .  .  .  She  had  felt  its  picturesque- 
ness  when  she  came  in.  It  was  striking  and  yet  not 
gaudy. 

And  she  was  interrupted  in  her  observations  by  the 
march  to  the  kitchen  to  supper.  The  kitchen  was  a  big 
room,  providing  ample  accommodation  for  a  large  party, 
whereas  the  so-called  dining-room  was  a  comparatively 
small  affair  and  was  inconvenient  in  these  Sunday  eve- 
ning gatherings. 

And  how  clean  and  bright  even  this  kitchen  looked! 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  171 

Emmie  was  struck  with  it  the  moment  she  entered. 
There  was  a  shininess  and  polish  even  about  the  worn 
things  that  showed  care  and  attention.  The  white  linen 
was  white  and  spotless,  and  all  the  things  in  the  room  had 
the  air  of  having  been  thoroughly  overhauled  and  kept 
well  in  hand. 

Mrs.  Holten  indicated  the  guests  their  seats,  with  a 
little  self-consciousness.  She  could  never  wholly  forget 
that  she  was  a  capable  housewife,  and  so  rather  offered 
all  she  did,  not  only  as  a  hostess,  but  as  a  model. 

Her  sisters  knew  her.  Mrs.  Grass,  too  easy-going  to 
rival  her,  said:  "Jane's  clever,  but  she  serves  her  clev- 
erness with  all  she  does."  And  Miss  Booke  had  said : 
"  Jane  would  manage  Buckingham  Palace  if  they'd  give 
her  a  chance  —  and  they'd  live  well  and  save  money, 
too."  The  men,  as  they  came  into  the  room,  glanced 
at  the  table. 

"  Makes  one  feel  hungry,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Grass,  with 
a  laugh. 

Mrs.  Holten  was  pleased. 

"  I  hope  you'll  enjoy  it,"  she  said.  "  Emmie  .  .  ." 
she  touched  a  chair.  "  Will  you  sit  here  ?  " 

Emmie  saw  on  the  big  dresser,  that  seemed  to  be  a 
fixture  near  the  window,  plates  and  dishes  that  could  be 
easily  handled  when  the  first  course  had  been  disposed 
of. 

Emmie  looked  at  the  ample  grate  and  saw  a  big,  well- 
polished  copper  kettle  and  an  iron  one.  All  the  fire-irons 
shone  like  burnished  steel.  Everything  seemed  in  its 
place,  toasting  fork,  brush,  a  square  thing  to  put  on  the  hot 
handle  of  the  kettle.  .  .  .  The  pictures  on  the  wall  looked 
"  nice  "  to  Emmie,  principally  because  they  had  neat  oak 
frames.  And  then  she  had  a  strange  thought :  "  These 
Holtens  have  their  meals  in  the  kitchen.  We  don't.  I 


172  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

don't.  I  have  mine  in  the  dining-room."  She  chortled. 
Well!  After  the  way  they'd  behaved.  .  .  . 

The  next  minute  she  was  being  helped  to  veal  and 
ham,  and  she  observed  the  dexterous  way  Mrs.  Holten 
carved,  the  flowers  on  the  table,  the  way  the  knives  and 
forks  and  spoons  and  forks  were  laid,  the  crockery  — 
but  that  was  not  so  nice  as  hers.  Emmie  began  to  feel 
that  Mrs.  Holten  had  not  got  all  the  leading. 

Mr.  Grass  began  talking  of  the  Manchester  Ship  Canal. 
He  was  an  engineer,  and  the  plan  interested  him.  He 
thought  it  would  cost  more  than  the  five  millions  reck- 
oned. There  were  always  difficulties  in  big  undertak- 
ings of  this  kind.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Holten  turned  to  Emmie:  "  Enjoying  it?  "  and 
she  smiled  very  pleasantly. 

"  Yes,  thank  you."  And  Emmie  was  enjoying  herself. 
She  was  interested  in  the  men's  talk,  in  the  general  atmos- 
phere, in  the  fact  that  she  was  well  dressed  and  treated 
as  an  equal  by  these  ladies  who  were  amongst  the  lead- 
ing ladies  of  Ganton. 

As  the  meal  progressed  and  the  sweets  were  being 
served,  Miss  Booke  said  to  her  sister :  "  Jane,  you  should 
show  Emmie  a  few  things  in  cooking:  that  apple  char- 
lotte of  yours,  and  your  potted  meat " 

Mrs.  Holten  looked  pleased;  she  liked  her  abilities  to 
be  noticed. 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  I'll  do  anything  for  you,  Emmie, 
like  that." 

Tim  said,  almost  casually :  "  I  don't  know  why  you 
want  to  be  teaching  Emmie  this  and  that;  she  can  man- 
age for  me  very  well,  thank  you." 

Emmie  blushed,  but  wanted  to  kiss  Tim,  not  because 
he  saved  her  being  shown  how  to  make  apple  charlotte 
or  to  pot  meat  like  Mrs.  Holten  ( for  really  she  was  glad 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  173 

to  learn  anything  useful),  but  because  he  stuck  up  for 
her  before  people.  It  showed  he  cared  for  her. 

"  I  don't  want  to  interfere,  Tim,"  said  Mrs.  Holten 
mildly. 

"  No,  Aunt  Jane.     But  that's  just  what  I  feel." 

Miss  Booke  said: 

"  And  I'm  sure  /  don't.  I  was  only  doing  it  for  the 
best.  But  you  can't  help  some  people." 

"  Have  some  of  this  junket,  Emmie,"  said  Mr.  Holten, 
who  wished  to  avoid  scenes.  "  It's  good  for  you." 

Emmie  would  have  had  some  even  if  it  had  punished 
her,  or  gone  without  it  if  she  had  been  famished  at  that 
moment  without  care  or  reck.  She  was  in  her  inner- 
most soul  rejoicing  over  the  discomfiture  of  Aunt  Maria 
by  Tim. 

She  said,  "  No,  thank  you,"  first  to  Mr.  Holten,  but  on 
being  pressed  had  some  "  junket,"  really  because  she 
thought  she  would  like  to  try  it,  and  not  because  she  was 
taking  some  she  would  please  her  host,  but  in  those  days 
it  was  considered  polite  to  refuse  and  very  hospitable 
and  natural  and  proper  to  persuade  and  press  people  to 
take  the  food  one  had  prepared  for  them. 

When  Emmie  walked  home  with  Tim,  she  felt  very 
happy.  This  life,  she  thought,  suited  her.  She  could 
behave  in  the  company  of  the  Bookes  just  as  well  as 
they  could,  for  that  matter.  As  for  Miss  Booke  .  .  . 
well,  you  couldn't  say  enough  about  her  and  her  lectur- 
ing. .  .  .  And  Emmie  felt  she  would  set  her  tables  just 
as  well  as  Mrs.  Holten  or  Mrs.  Grass  or  Miss  Booke  — 
and  cook  as  well,  too.  She  was  happy,  not  only  because 
she  was  very  comfortably  married  and  had  a  kind  and 
indulgent  husband  and  happiness  seemed  to  float  about 
her  as  if  it  were  her  proper  atmosphere,  but  she  was  feel- 


174  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

ing  her  personality  breaking  through  this  new  social 
crust.  She  felt  a  confidence  in  herself  that  gave  her  a 
fine  assurance.  These  people  could  have  their  little  gibes 
now  and  again  and  attempt  to  teach  her,  but  Emmie  felt 
within  her  a  capability  equal  to  theirs,  equal  to  Mrs.  Hoi- 
ten's —  equal  to  anything  she  might  be  called  on  to  do. 
She  had  always  been  somebody  in  the  trimming-room, 
and  now  she  felt  she  was  really  somebody  in  the  society 
of  those  who  employed  trimmers  and  thought  no  small 
beer  of  themselves. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TIM  had,  of  course,  the  whole  responsibility  for  the 
success  or  failure  of  "  T.  Booke  &  Son  "  on  his 
own  shoulders.  Mr.  Booke  came  to  the  works  almost 
every  day.  He  generally  managed  to  see  Emmie  if  it 
were  only  for  a  moment,  and  he  passed  his  time  going 
from  counting  house  to  warehouse,  from  fur  blowing 
or  wool  forming  to  body-making  and  finishing.  He 
talked  to  the  men  familiarly  and  seemed  to  go  about  as 
a  man  would  who  loved  a  garden  and  noted  a  rose  tree 
here  and  a  fuchsia  there,  a  magnolia,  and  so  on.  He  had 
lived  with  the  scent  of  hat-making  in  his  nostrils  ever 
since  he  could  remember  and  he  had  no  desire  to  lose 
the  odour  now. 

Tim  had  to  do  the  buying  —  the  buying  of  wool  and 
fur  and  silks  and  leathers  and  galloons.  He  had  to  de- 
cide shapes  and  order  blocks  and  see  that  the  money 
came  in  and  that  the  business  of  T.  Booke  &  Son  did  not 
suffer  in  his  hands. 

He  talked  over  business  with  his  father,  but  the  con- 
versation was  always  conducted  with  a  certain  amount 
of  delicacy,  for  Mr.  Booke  never  offered  advice.  Tim 
would  occasionally  say :  "  I'm  doing  that  "  and  "  I  think 
I  shall  try  that,"  but  never  actually  asked  for  counsel 
or  encouragement,  and  Mr.  Booke  would  nod  and  ex- 
press no  opinion,  as  a  rule.  It  was  as  if  he  said,  "  Well, 
it's  yours  now,  and  you  must  do  what  you  think  fit,  re- 
lying on  your  own  judgment." 

Tim  was  equal  to  his  task.  He  had  had  a  sound  and 
thorough  training  in  the  business  and  showed  no  diffi- 

i75 


176  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

dence  or  weakness  in  taking  sole  control.  He  appointed 
a  man,  who  had  been  with  the  firm  some  years,  as  his 
manager.  He  was  a  keen,  rather  high-browed,  shrewd- 
eyed  man,  not  much  older  than  Tim,  steady  and  ener- 
getic, Ernest  Mullins  by  name.  Tim  still  travelled  a  lit- 
tle and  he  thought  it  as  well  to  have  some  one  quite 
responsible  in  the  factory  while  he  was  away. 

It  happened  that  now  and  then  Tim  would  ask  Mullins 
to  come  in  the  house  when  the  works  were  closed  so  that 
they  could  talk  business  matters  over  more  comfortably. 
And  as  they  sat  and  smoked  their  pipes  and  talked  of  the 
price  of  wool  or  fur,  of  this  competitor's  effort,  or  a  new 
process,  of  work  people  and  other  details,  Emmie  sat  and 
listened. 

She  and  Mullins  naturally  knew  each  other.  He  had 
called  her  "  Emmie  "  when  she  trimmed,  and  she  had 
always  referred  to  him  as  Ernest  Mullins,  even  if  she 
had  not  actually  addressed  him  as  Ernest. 

He  turned  to  her  once  when  he  and  Tim  had  been  dis- 
cussing something,  and  she  had  listened  without  saying 
anything. 

"  A  bit  dry  for  you,  all  this  .  .  .  Mrs.  Tim." 

"  Oh !     No,"  she  said.     "  It's  very  interesting." 

"  She  knows  all  about  it,"  said  Tim. 

Emmie  looked  up  from  her  sewing  and  smiled. 

"  I  ought  to  know  something,"  she  said. 

"  It's  our  bread  and  butter,  at  any  rate,"  said  Ernest, 
and  then  he  plunged  once  more  into  business  details  with 
Tim. 

Emmie  liked  to  hear  them  talk.  It  gave  her  the  feel- 
ing of  actually  being  behind  the  scenes.  She  took  a  keen 
interest  in  what  was  said,  and  occasionally  surprised  Tim 
by  comments  and  suggestions. 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  177 

"  I'll  make  thee  manager,  Emmie,"  he  said  one  day, 
jokingly. 

"  Might  do  worse,"  retorted  Emmie. 

Tim  shook  his  head. 

"  You've  got  enough  to  manage  at  present.  And 
there'll  be  more  soon,  eh?  " 

Emmie  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  he  liked  and 
yet  held  in  a  little  awe :  it  seemed  so  deep. 

He  put  an  arm  round  her. 

"  Which  would  you  rather  ...  a  boy  or  a  girl  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"Twins?"  he  suggested. 

"Go  on ! "  she  said,  pushing  him  away  playfully. 

This  was  the  next  big  fact  in  Emmie's  life.  As  the 
time  drew  near  for  the  little  stranger's  advent,  Emmie 
had  got  quite  accustomed  to  being  Mrs.  Timothy  Booke. 
She  could  now  greet  her  husband's  aunts  without  nervous- 
ness or  tribulation  of  any  kind.  She  found  she  could 
manage  her  house  well  enough  to  allow  Mrs.  Holten  or 
Miss  Booke  to  call  at  almost  any  time  and  take  her  un- 
awares without  snatching  at  this  and  hiding  that  or 
wondering  if  they  would  notice  such  and  such.  .  .  .  She 
could  entertain  with  ease,  and  the  hint  of  diffidence  to- 
wards the  elders  was  really  pleasing  to  them. 

Tim  and  she  got  on  capitally.  He  had  resumed  his 
visits  to  the  club,  but  he  did  not  make  it  a  religion  to 
go  there  every  night  or  feel  ill  at  ease  and  uncomfortable 
if  he  stayed  at  home. 

Emmie  never  said  anything  if,  on  these  club  nights,  he 
came  home  late.  For  one  thing,  she  rather  liked  the  idea 
of  her  husband  being  at  the  club:  it  signified  a  social 
standing  to  her. 


178  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

She  waited  up  the  first  time. 

Tim  said :     "  You  shouldn't  have  waited  up." 

"  I  didn't  mind,"  she  said.     "  I'd  some  sewing  to  do." 

"  You  mustn't  wait  up  again  if  I'm  late,  or  I  shall  be 
uncomfortable." 

"  Go  on  with  you !  If  I've  got  some  work  to  do,  what 
does  it  matter?  And  don't  you  worry  about  me  when 
you're  at  the  club ;  I'm  not  a  child." 

But  Tim  reduced  his  club-going  to  very  occasional 
visits  just  before  the  baby  was  born.  He  and  Emmie 
would  walk  at  night  slowly  up  and  down  Silton  Street 
or  out  of  Silton  Street  into  Taylor  Lane  and  along  the 
quieter  New  Road. 

Mr.  Booke  called  daily  to  see  Emmie  and  was  con- 
cerned if  he  saw  her  looking  tired. 

"  Emmie  mustn't  work  too  much  now,"  he  said  to  Tim, 
a  month  or  so  before  the  expected  confinement. 

"  No.  I've  told  her.  Mrs.  Wright's  coming  in  next 
week." 

"  That's  right.     She  must  take  care." 

Both  father  and  son  were  stirred  with  a  wave  of  senti- 
ment, but  there  was  no  clear  expression  of  it.  They  were 
silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  to  get  out  of  the  awkward- 
ness, Tim  said :  "  I  think  crowns'll  go  a  deal  fuller, 
Father." 

"  Ay.  I  thowt  as  much."  And  then,  after  a  pause : 
"  Reckon  you'll  have  Dr.  Everkith." 

"  Oh,  yes.  ...  I  gave  him  the  hint  the  other  day." 

"  Ay.  .  .  .  H'm.  .  .  .  Very  sensible.  .  .  .  Crowns  go- 
ing fuller,  eh.  .  .  ." —  referring  to  the  shapes  of  hats. 

Mrs.  Holten  and  Mrs.  Grass  and  Miss  Booke  were 
prodigal  of  advice,  particularly  Miss  Booke.  But  they 
were  all  genuinely  solicitous;  they  desired  her  welfare 
sincerely.  A  Booke  was  to  be  brought  into  the  world. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  179 

Emmie  was,  on  the  whole,  rather  pleased  with  the 
attention.  She  kept  very  well,  felt  rarely  moody  or  sub- 
ject to  whims,  was  able  to  do  a  certain  amount  of  house- 
work and  had  the  desires  and  appetite  of  a  healthy  woman. 

Alice  Cannell  called  to  see  her  one  evening.  She  had 
been  once  or  twice  before,  but  now  that  the  jaunts  to- 
gether were  ended  the  friendship  lost  its  old  intimacy. 
Still,  whenever  they  met,  they  talked  freely  and  pleas- 
antly together  and  Alice  told  her  escapades  and  excite- 
ments with  a  zest  that  Emmie  thoroughly  enjoyed. 

It  happened  that  Miss  Booke  and  Mrs.  Holten  called 
that  evening,  and  they  bowed  with  a  fine  condescension 
to  Alice  —  particularly  Miss  Booke.  Mrs.  Holten  ven- 
tured to  remark  that  for  April  the  weather  was  not  bad, 
considering  the  terrible  storms  we  had  in  March.  Mrs. 
Holten  suggested  the  important  lady  being  agreeable  and 
free  to  one  beneath  her. 

Alice  was  somewhat  uncomfortable  and  wished  that 
she  was  with  Emmie  alone,  so  that  she  could  tell  her  about 
a  chap  she  thought  she  would  really  make  it  up  with :  he 
was  a  real  nice  fellow.  ...  As  it  was,  she  remarked 
carefully  on  the  storms  we  had  had  in  March;  she  had 
heard  that  thousands  of  sheep  had  been  lost  in  Wales  — 
a  thousand  or  ten  thousand.  She  wasn't  sure  which. 

Miss  Booke  said  authoritatively:     "Ten  thousand." 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice,  willing  to  accept  any  figure.  "  I 
wasn't  sure." 

"  A  big  difference  between  ten  thousand  and  one  thou- 
sand," said  Miss  Booke,  with  austere  correctitude. 

Alice  looked  and  felt  chilled.  She  also  was  filled  with 
a  desire  "  to  scratch  that  woman,"  but  merely  sat  awk- 
wardly on  the  edge  of  an  apparently  high  chair  and  was 
annoyed  she  could  not  get  her  heels  down  properly. 

Emmie  was  not  at  all  disturbed.     She  found  she  could 


i8o  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

listen  to  Miss  Booke  now  without  being  upset  as  she  used 
to  be.  Of  course,  Miss  Booke  was  careful  now  not  to 
say  anything  hurting  to  Emmie,  but  she  could  not  repress 
her  undoubted  talent  for  advice,  correction  and  advertise- 
ment altogether,  just  because  her  niece  was  going  to  have 
a  baby. 

Alice  said  she  had  to  be  going,  for  the  atmosphere  now 
was  no  longer  congenial  and  she  prepared  to  get  out  of  it. 

"  I'll  see  you  out,"  said  Emmie,  and  went  with  her  to 
the  front  door. 

"  Don't  catch  a  cold  now,  Emmie,"  said  Miss  Booke, 
and  she  looked  at  her  sister  in  a  way  to  signify:  What 
do  you  think  of  that  ?  meaning  it  was  almost  preposterous 
for  Alice  Cannell  to  be  shown  out  of  the  front  door  — 
the  back  door  was  surely  good  enough  for  her. 

Emmie  had  chosen  the  front  door  of  set  purposes  and 
design ;  she  would  let  the  Booke  ladies  see  that  any  friend 
of  hers  was  worthy  of  the  front  door. 

Alice  looked  at  Emmie  in  the  hall. 

"  That  woman!  "  she  whispered.  "  I'd  like  to  fill  her 
mouth  full  o'  paste."  Then  they  both  smothered  a 
laughter  that  would,  had  it  not  been  repressed,  have  rung 
through  the  house. 

The  silence  was  enough  to  tell  Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss 
Booke  that  something  was  being  whispered.  Miss  Booke 
coughed  loudly  and  unnecessarily. 

Emmie  and  Alice,  smiles  on  their  faces,  nodded  at  one 
another. 

"  Can  you  get  on  with  her?  "  whispered  Alice. 

"  Oh !     Yes.     You  can't  have  everything." 

"  No,  'spect  not.  Well,  *  olive  oil/  and  look  after 
yourself." 

They  kissed. 

"  Come  in  just  whenever  you  like,"  said  Emmie. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  181 

"  Well  keep  that  vinegar  bottle  out,"  said  Alice,  with 
a  nod  and  a  grin,  "  and  I'll  come  oftener." 

When  Emmie  returned  to  the  two  ladies,  Miss  Booke 
said  :  "  Does  Alice  Cannell  come  often?  " 

"  Not  so  often  as  I'd  like,"  said  Emmie  quickly,  with 
a  little  inward  chuckle  as  she  added  to  herself:  "  That's 
one  for  you !  " 

Miss  Booke  drew  herself  up.  Really.  .  .  .  But  she 
held  her  peace.  She  thought  she  was  behaving  nobly  in 
not  continuing  the  discussion  ...  at  such  a  time,  you 
understand.  .  .  .  Had  things  been  normal,  more  might 
have  been  said. 

Emmie  every  now  and  then  was  a  little  surprised  at 
her  own  capacity.  She  had  before  been  an  industrious 
trimmer  and  had  done  her  work  well,  earned  quite  good 
wages,  dressed  well  and  tastefully,  and  made  most  of  her 
clothes.  But  she  had  had  no  standard  of  ability  with 
which  to  judge  herself.  Now,  she  noted  how  she  stood 
because  she  had  had  to  do  certain  unusual  things,  and  she 
found  she  did  them  with  ease  and  satisfaction.  She 
managed  her  house  admirably  —  Mrs.  Holten  readily 
conceded  that.  She  cooked,  she  washed,  she  arranged 
and  ordered  without  any  effort.  These  domestic  mat- 
ters seemed  simple  to  her.  And  now,  in  her  present  con- 
dition, she  was  almost  inclined  to  jeer  at  the  women  who 
made  a  martyrdom  of  childbearing. 

"  I  could  dance,"  she  said  to  Tim  one  day. 

Tim  looked  up :     "  By  Gum  !     You'd  better  not." 

"  I'm  not  going  to,  silly.     I  only  said  I  could." 

"  You're  a  marvel,  Emmie ;  I  hope  you'll  go  through 
it  all  as  well." 

Emmie  pulled  a  face. 

"  That'll  be  another  thing." 

Still  she  was  getting  into  the  way  of  thinking  that  if 


182  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

she  had  anything  to  do  she  could  do  it  —  and  do  it  well, 
of  course. 

Also  she  was  beginning  to  feel  that  she  could  defend 
herself  quite  well,  against  Miss  Booke  and  all  Tim's  rela- 
tives, if  they  attacked  her.  She  wasn't  going  to  be  put 
on  and  she  was  not  going  to  be  told  what  to  do  nor  talked 
at.  Advice  offered  as  a  genuine  aid  with  genuine  good 
wishes  behind  it  was  one  thing;  advice  strongly  diluted 
with  the  proclaimed  superiority  of  the  giver  was  another, 
a  very  different  thing.  Emmie  was  beginning  to  press 
her  lips  together  and  raise  her  chin  when  face  to  face  with 
Miss  Booke. 

She  noted  this  attitude  in  herself,  noted  her  growth  in 
decision  and  the  development  of  her  abilities.  She  won- 
dered for  a  moment  if  the  child  she  was  to  bear  was  the 
cause  of  this  mental  expansion  —  and  dismissed  the  idea 
almost  at  once.  It  was  she  herself  that  was  developing 
like  a  plant  in  the  sun. 

She  knew  it.  Undoubtedly  she  felt  a  little  of  this  self- 
confidence  in  the  excellent  health  she  enjoyed,  particularly 
within  a  few  weeks  of  her  confinement.  She  had,  nat- 
urally, all  sorts  of  tales,  as  well  as  counsel,  poured  into 
her  ears,  and  most  of  the  experiences  she  heard  seemed 
those  of  feeble  people  or  of  those  who  had  had  to  suffer. 
She  had  discovered  her  amazing  vitality  after  mar- 
riage. 

Both  Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  were  shrewd  and 
observent  enough  to  grasp  the  indisputable  fact  of  Em- 
mie's assurance  and  felt  a  mingled  resentment  and  pride 
at  it.  She  was  only  Sam  Bollins'  daughter  —  but  she  was 
also  Tim's  wife.  They  found  it  hard  to  praise  her,  and 
yet  would  not  allow  her  to  be  attacked. 

And  Emmie,  fully  emerged  from  the  chrysalis  stage  of 
diffidence  went  about  gathering  the  honey  of  life  in  her 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  183 

own  glowing  way  and  impressing  those  with  whom  she 
came  in  contact  with  a  sense  of  her  "  aliveness." 

Her  mother  and  father  almost  came  to  regard  her  with 
awe,  at  least  with  the  idea  that  she  was  not  as  she  used 
to  be,  that  she  was  changed,  another  and  a  greater  Em- 
mie. .  .  . 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bollins,  exceedingly  gratified  that  their 
daughter  was  Mrs.  Booke  and  ready  to  talk  of  her  at 
all  times  and  seasons,  yet  showed  a  little  reluctance  at 
visiting  Helston  House  too  frequently.  They  feared 
Booke  tongues  a  little,  were  somewhat  afraid  of  what 
Mrs.  Holten  or  Miss  Booke  might  say — "they  were 
never  off  the  doorstep,"  or  perhaps  suggest  they  went 
there  to  get  things,  food  for  instance.  And  they  had 
their  pride. 

Mrs.  Bollins  mentioned  her  desire  at  tea  time. 

"  I  think  I'd  like  to  go  and  see  Emmie  to-night;  have 
you  seen  her  to-day?  " 

"  No ! "  There  was  always  the  chance  that  Mr.  Bol- 
lins, from  the  yard  of  T.  Booke  &  Son's,  might  see  his 
daughter. 

"  It's  getting  near  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins. 

"  Ay." 

He  was  drinking  tea  out  of  a  cup  bereft  of  its  handle 
and  munching  radishes  which  were  set  out  in  a  saucer. 

"  I  haven't  been  for  some  time,"  he  said. 

"  No."  There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Bollins  hesitated 
and  then  seemed  to  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was 
something  to  be  said  both  ways  and  that  it  didn't  mat- 
ter. "  Will  you  come  with  me?  "  she  asked. 

He  drank  his  tea  noisily,  put  a  radish  in  his  mouth 
threw  the  end  in  the  fireplace,  and  after  a  pause,  said: 
"  I  might.  ...  Ay.  ...  I  might." 


184  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  It's  no  good  going  too  late,"  she  said.  "  I  could 
have  a  talk  with  Emmie  first.  You  could  come  after 
you've  had  a  wash.  You'd  better  put  your  other  coat 
on  too,  hadn't  you  ?  " 

He  was  sitting  in  his  shirtsleeves,  wearing  a  collar 
and  tie  as  a  concession  to  his  relationship  to  the  head 
of  the  factory  where  he  worked,  his  boots  were  old  and 
tied  with  string  (to  save  the  better  pair  he  wore  in  the 
streets  and  out  of  the  works  generally,  but  the  tea  half 
hour  was  too  short  for  changes  of  raiment)  and  the  white 
apron  which  covered  him  from  chest  to  shins  was  dirty 
in  patches,  as  were  his  hands,  with  the  dye  of  the  hats. 

He  looked  at  himself. 

"  Yes."  He  was  rather  pleased  to  get  into  the  better 
clothes  he  had,  for  since  Emmie's  wedding  day  he  had 
had  an  extra  suit. 

"  All  right,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be  gone  when  you  get 
home.  I'll  leave  the  key." 

Mrs.  Bollins  took  a  deal  of  trouble  over  her  appear- 
ance when  going  to  see  Emmie,  for  there  was  always  the 
chance  that  she  might  meet  somebody  of  importance 
there  —  of  importance  from  her  point  of  view,  naturally. 
Her  hands  were  never  quite  clean,  for  she  had  got  past 
that  stage  when  she  bothered  to  take  care  of  them,  but 
she  could  dress  tastefully,  for  Emmie  invariably  helped 
with  the  choice  of  a  dress. 

As  she  left  the  key  with  Mrs.  Black,  her  next  door 
neighbour,  she  said :  "  Just  going  to  see  my  daughter." 

Mrs.  Black,  nursing  the  big  iron  key,  said :  "  Oh,  yes. 
She's  keeping  very  well,  I  hear." 

"  I  think  so."   ' 

Mrs.  Black  nodded  her  head,  signifying  quite  an  intel- 
ligible prologue,  and  then  said :  "  Soon,  isn't  it?  " 

"'  About  three  weeks." 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  185 

Mrs.  Black  screwed  up  her  face  and  conveyed  other 
expressions  in  silent  language.  Mrs.  Bollins  nodded  and 
then  smiled.  "  And  she's  got  everything  she  wants." 

"  Oh!     Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Black.     "  That's  a  comfort." 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  ...  I  reckon  he'll  be  here  smart  — 
he's  coining  after  me." 

Mrs.  Bollins  was  conveying  to  Mrs.  Black  the  infor- 
mation that  the  key  would  not  trouble  her  long. 

"  That's  all  right,"  replied  Mrs.  Black.  "  I'm  not  go- 
ing out." 

Mrs.  Bollins  smiled  and  went  on  her  way,  meeting  in  a 
couple  of  minutes  Mrs.  Tegginbottom. 

"  Nice  night,"  said  Mrs.  Tegginbottom,  a  little  observ- 
ant woman,  who  said  to  herself,  as  she  saw  Mrs.  Bollins 
dressed  so  neatly  and  cleanly :  "  Ah !  Going  to  see  her 
daughter." 

"  Very  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins.  "  I'm  just  going  to 
see  my  daughter." 

"  I  thought  so.  It's  .  .  ."  There  were  nods,  very 
similar  to  Mrs.  Black's.  "  Soon,  isn't  it?  " 

Mrs.  Bollins  smiled  and  nodded  and  seemed  to  convey 
information  of  a  kind  by  her  smiles  and  nods. 

"  She's  keeping  well,  I  hear,"  said  Mrs.  Tegginbottom. 

"  Very.  But  of  course  she  has  everything  she  wants," 
said  the  fond  and  very  proud  mother.  Her  daughter  had 
everything  she  wanted! 

And  as  she  walked  on  Mrs.  Bollins  was  very  pleased  she 
had  occasion  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Black  and  Mrs.  Teggin- 
bottom, and  rather  hoped  she  might  have  occasion  to 
meet  more  acquaintances,  so  that  she  could  remind  them 
of  her  daughter  who  had  everything  she  wanted. 

Mrs.  Bollins  went  in  by  the  back  door.  She  felt  more 
comfortable  going  in  there  than  at;  ^h?  front,  and  the  side 


i86  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

door  was  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other.  Besides,  the 
back  door  was  familiar.  With  Sarah  or  her  husband 
Mrs.  Bollins  would  have  gone  where  they  wished. 

Emmie  was  in  the  kitchen,  putting  some  things  on  a 
"  maiden."  There  was  the  familiar  smell  of  washing  and 
ironing,  the  warm,  slightly  damp  atmosphere,  and  the 
pungent  odour  of  burnt  soap  over  which  the  iron  was 
periodically  run.  A  woman  was  ironing  clothes  at  the 
table. 

"  Hello,  Mother,"  said  Emmie,  going  round  and  greet- 
ing her  with  a  kiss. 

Mrs.  Bollins  had  come  to  see  how  Emmie  was,  to  give 
her  advice,  to  warn  her  about  this,  and  tell  her  about  that, 
but  Emmie  took  possession  of  her  at  once. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come.  Sit  you  down.  This  is  Mrs. 
Wright." 

Mrs.  Wright  was  the  daily  help.  Mrs.  Bollins  nodded 
her  head  and  smiled. 

"  Doing  a  bit  of  ironing?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Wright  affably. 

"  I'll  help  you,  Emmie,  with  them,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins. 

"  No  fear.  Just  you  sit  down  and  rest  yourself.  This 
is  nothing." 

"  You  shouldn't  do  too  much." 

"  That's  what  I  tell  her,"  ventured  Mrs.  Wright. 

Mrs.  Bollins  shook  her  head. 

"  Yes.     We  don't  want  any  accidents." 

"  No,"  echoed  Mrs.  Wright.  "  Don't  want  no  acci- 
dents now." 

Emmie  laughed. 

"  Accidents.  We're  not  going  to  have  any  accident 
because  I'm  putting  a  few  things  on  a  maiden."  The 
clothes  horse  was  always  referred  to  as  a  "  maiden  "  in 
the  Bollins  family. 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  187 

"  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that  .  .  ."  and  Mrs. 
Bollins  had  a  most  engrossing  tale  to  tell  about  some  one 
who  had  had  a  miscarriage  because  of  some  trivial  and 
almost  insignificant  thing  she  had  attempted  when  she 
was  in  a  condition  similar  to  Emmie. 

And  Mrs.  Wright  nodded  her  head  with  complete  ap- 
proval. She,  too,  had  stories  to  tell  of  people  she  knew, 
very  thrilling  and  interesting  stories  they  were,  too,  all 
of  them  conveying  the  moral  of  care  and  ease. 

Emmie  laughed. 

"  You  two!  You'll  give  me  the  jumps  soon.  At  any 
rate,  I'm  not  going  to  be  stopped  doing  things  like  this 
because  Mrs.  Somebody  made  a  mess  of  herself  through 
trying  to  pull  down  a  window  blind  that  stuck.  You 
must  stop  and  have  some  supper,  Mother." 

"  Your  father's  coming  too." 

"  Well,  he  can  stop,  as  well ;  we've  enough  for  both  of 
you." 

"Oh!     But  ...  it's  a  lot  o'  trouble." 

"  No  trouble  at  all.  Just  you  take  your  bonnet  off  — 
that  suits  you." 

"Does  it?" 

"  Yes.     Don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Wright  ?  " 

"  Very  nice.     I  noticed  it  when  you  came  in." 

Emmie  went  to  her  mother,  untied  her  bonnet  strings, 
put  the  bonnet  on  a  little  farther  forward,  while  Mrs. 
Bollins  sat  submissive  and  pleased. 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  as  she  looked  at  it  again.  "  Very 
nice.  Very  neat  .  .  .  it's  stylish,  too,  Mother.  I'll  put 
it  here  for  the  moment,"  and  she  put  it  on  the  dresser 
on  some  linen  that  was  folded  and  ready  to  be  put  away. 

Mrs.  Bollins  noticed  how  much  older  Emmie  seemed. 
She  was  no  longer  a  girl,  but  a  grown  woman ;  she  moved 
and  talked  with  authority. 


i88  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  We'll  have  some  toasted  cheese,"  she  said.  "  You 
like  that,  Mother,  and  so  does  father.  I  think  we've 
enough  cheese.  .  .  ."  She  at  once  went  to  the  cupboard 
near  the  fireplace. 

"  Now  don't  make  any  fuss,  Emmie." 

"  Toasted  cheese  is  no  fuss.  I  don't  think  we've  time 
for  onions :  they  take  so  long " 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Front  door,"  said  Emmie.  "  Sounds  like  Aunt 
Maria."  She  pushed  her  hands  down  her  apron  and 
gave  an  instantaneous  and  almost  instinctive  glance  at 
herself.  Aunt  Maria  could  certainly  send  a  thrill  of 
sorts  through  people. 

"  I'll  open  the  door,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins,  rising  and  go- 
ing away,  quite  pleased  to  show  Miss  Booke  she  was 
doing  something  in  the  fine  house  of  her  daughter's. 

Emmie  said:  "Don't  you  bother,"  but,  seeing  her 
mother  go,  seriously  acquiesced,  particularly  as  Mrs. 
Wright  (probably  desiring  to  show  Mrs.  Bollins  what  a 
thoughtful  woman  she  —  Mrs.  Wright  —  was  about  a 
house  at  a  time  like  this),  said:  "You  shouldn't  run 
about  too  much,  you  know,  Mrs.  Booke." 

Emmie  uttered  a  little  incoherent  noise,  signifying  she 
would  run  about  if  she  wanted. 

Then  Miss  Booke's  voice  was  heard  at  the  door : 

"You,  is  it?"  with  a  fine  volume  of  feeling  on  the 
pronoun. 

Mrs.  Bollins  felt  shrivelled  almost  at  once. 

"  Yes,"  she  muttered  apologetically.  "  I  was  just  sit- 
ting with  Emmie  in  the  kitchen." 

"  Is  there  nobody  else  in?  " 

"  There's  Mrs.  Wright." 

"Oh!  ...  Couldn't  she  open  the  door?  " 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  189 

Mrs.  Bollins  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  she  had  com- 
mitted some  horrible  blunder. 

"  She  was  doing  something,"  she  muttered  awkwardly. 

"  I  was  just  passing,"  said  Miss  Booke,  as  if  she  had 
now  discussed  the  opening  of  the  door  sufficiently.  "  I 
thought  I'd  just  see  how  Emmie  was." 

The  mother  was  pleased. 

"  She's  very  well,  I'm  thankful  to  say." 

"  She  ought  to  be,"  said  Miss  Booke,  going  forward, 
"  with  a  nice  home  like  this." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bollins  submissively. 

Miss  Booke  walked  into  the  kitchen. 

"  There  you  are,"  she  said  to  Emmie.  She  nodded  to 
Mrs.  Wright. 

"  I  thought  it  was  you,"  said  Emmie.  "  Sit  down, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  stay.  I  was  passing  and  I  thought 
I  would  just  see  how  you  are." 

"  I'm  all  right,  thanks.  Sit  down,  Mother."  Emmie 
spoke  cheerily,  while  Mrs.  Bollins  was  standing  in  the 
attitude  of  a  suppliant. 

"  You  know,"  said  Miss  Booke,  with  an  authoritative 
air,  "  this  is  no  place  for  you,  Emmie." 

"  This  .  .  .  my  own  kitchen  —  oh !  I've  got  some- 
thing to  do  here ;  can't  do  this  in  the  dining-room." 

"  I  wasn't  meaning  that  altogether,"  said  Miss  Booke 
seriously,  while  Mrs.  Bollins,  sitting  comfortably  on  a 
chair,  wondered  what  the  important  Miss  Booke  was 
going  to  say  to  Emmie.  "  I  was  thinking  of  your  con- 
dition. .  .  ."  She  shook  her  head.  "  This  washing  and 
ironing  won't  do  you  any  good." 

"  Won't  do  me  any  harm,  either,"  retorted  Emmie 
quickly,  as  one  refusing  to  be  lectured.  "  The  smell  of 


igo  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

a  bit  of  washing  or  the  sight  of  a  clean  petticoat'll  do  me 
no  harm." 

Miss  Booke  clinked  her  lips  together  in  a  disapproving 
fashion. 

Just  then  Tim  came  in. 

He  nodded  to  his  aunt  and  mother-in-law. 

"  Are  you  frightened  to  be  with  a  lot  of  women,  Tim?  " 
Emmie  asked  gaily. 

"  Frightened.  ...  By  Gum !  " 

She  laughed.  Mrs.  Bollins  laughed  too,  but  looked 
furtively  at  Miss  Booke  to  get  a  cue  from  her.  Mrs. 
Wright  said:  "Eh  ...  isn't  she?  Eh!  .  .  ."  Emmie 
went  on  lifting  up  linen  and  putting  it  on  the  maiden. 

Miss  Booke  said :  "  I've  just  been  telling  Emmie  she 
shouldn't  be  so  much  in  this  kitchen,  just  now,  Tim.  .  .  ." 

"  No.  Well,  she  knows.  .  .  .  She  looks  healthy 
enough." 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  Ah,  well.  I'll  be  getting  on,"  said  Miss 
Booke. 

"  You've  only  just  come,"  said  Emmie. 

"  I  only  meant  to  call " 

"  Stop  and  have  a  bit  o'  supper,"  said  Tim. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Tim ;  no,  thank  you.  I  wouldn't 
dream  of  it  at  a  time  like  this,"  and  she  looked  at  Mrs. 
Bollins.  "  Are  you  coming  up  the  road,  Mrs.  Bollins  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bollins  looked  in  a  minor  agony. 

"  No!  No!  "  said  Emmie  quickly.  "  Mother's  going 
to  stay  and  have  a  bit  of  supper:  she  comes  so  seldom." 

Mrs.  Bollins  began  to  mutter  something,  but  Tim  said 
genially :  "  That's  right.  You'd  better  stay  too,  Aunt 
Maria;  we  can  find  enough  to  eat." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Tim,"  she  replied,  with  fine  emphasis. 
"No,  thank  you;  as  I  said  before,  not  just  now,  thank 
you." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  191 

Mrs.  Bollins  felt  like  a  criminal  caught  red-handed. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Miss  Booke.  "  Good  night,  Em- 
mie, and  remember  my  warning.  .  .  ." 

And  as  the  important  lady  went  down  the  road,  she 
was  saying  to  herself:  "  Just  what  I  thought;  just  what 
I  expected.  Those  Bollinses  will  live  on  Tim.  It  will 
be  first  one  and  then  the  other.  .  .  .  T't,  t't,  t't.  .  .  ." 
And  she  wagged  her  head  and  walked  to  her  sister's  so 
that  she  could  talk  the  matter  over  with  a  fervour  that 
would  do  justice  to  the  topic. 

Emmie,  meanwhile,  saw  to  the  supper,  and  Tim  was 
quite  comfortable  in  the  company  of  his  wife's  parents, 
talking  familiarly  with  Sam  Bollins  about  hats  and  hat- 
ters, and  what  Ganton  was  like  forty  years  ago  when 
you  could  see  from  where  they  were,  past  the  station  — 
there  were  no  houses  there  then.  .  .  .  All  that  you  see 
now  are  new.  .  .  . 

And  Tim,  as  he  listened,  kept  looking  at  his  wife,  who 
smiled  and  looked  happy  and  seemed  to  hook  him  to  her 
with  those  bright  glances  she  shot  at  him  from  time  to 
time.  Tim  would  have  put  up  with  a  society  gathered 
from  the  hedges  and  ditches  if  only  Emmie  had  been 
there  to  enjoy  it,  for  her  joyous  spirit  infected  his. 

Mr.  Bollins,  feeling  very  proud  and  happy,  wiped  his 
mouth  and  kissed  his  daughter. 

"  G'night,  Emmie." 

"  Good  night,  Father." 

Mrs.  Bollins  whispered :  "  Do  you  think  Miss  Booke 
was  vexed  ?  " 

Emmie  laughed. 

"  What  does  it  matter  if  she  was  or  not?  This  is  my 
house,  not  hers." 

Mrs.  Bollins  looked  at  her  daughter  with  perplexity; 
Emmie  was  beyond  her.  .  .  . 


EMMIE  in  bed  was  a  picture.  The  room  was  clean 
and  tidy,  the  bed  linen  was  white  and  Emmie,  her- 
self, with  her  hands  specially  attended  to  and  her  hair 
most  carefully  done  and  tied  up  with  a  dark  red  ribbon, 
was  ready  for  any  doctor. 

Mrs.  Bollins  was  there,  useful  in  a  way,  but  principally 
as  an  assistant  to  Mrs.  Batten,  the  midwife,  a  portly, 
placid-faced  woman,  who  had  been  present  at  the  birth 
of  the  Holten  and  Grass  children.  She  gave  Emmie 
plenty  of  encouragement,  told  her  she  would  go  through 
it  all  right;  she  knew  her  sort;  she'd  seen  them  before 
.  .  .  she'd  be  all  right.  And  it  would  be  a  fine  and 
healthy  child.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bollins  was  filled  with  pride.  Every  step  she 
took  in  this  house  filled  her  with  more  pride.  But,  prin- 
cipally, she  was  struck  with  Emmie.  Her  own  daughter 
seemed  to  be  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  house. 
She  was  a  perfect  picture  there,  with  her  head  on  that 
pillow.  Ill  or  well,  she  seemed  to  be  the  person  in  the 
house  who  counted.  It  was  remarkable. 

Tim,  of  course,  was  the  master,  but  he  was  easy-going, 
he  was  tolerant,  he  would  put  up  with  things.  With 
Emmie,  now,  you  were  stirred.  Mrs.  Bollins  wondered 
why  she  had  not  noticed  this  before.  Perhaps  Emmie 
had  changed  .  .  .  got  more  .  .  .  more  character. 

But  Emime  could  not  dominate  a  little  child.  She 
turned  and  twisted  and  screwed  up  her  handkerchief  and 
thrust  it  into  her  mouth,  while  tears  stood  like  jewels  on 
her  cheeks. 

192 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  193 

Dr.  Everkith,  exceedingly  sympathetic,  soothed  her  and 
helped  her.  .  .  . 

A  boy!  .  .  . 

Tim  came  to  the  bedside.  He  was  cool  and  without 
fuss,  but  he  looked  at  Emmie  lovingly. 

"  Feel  better  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

She  nodded  and  smiled. 

"  Don't  worry  to  talk  just  yet,"  he  whispered. 

They  both  looked  at  the  tiny  infant  on  her  breast. 

Tim  jerked  his  head  in  astonishment  at  the  whole  busi- 
ness. Emmie  saw  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  and 
as  their  eyes  met  they  smiled  again. 

Dr.  Everkith  patted  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Now  then,  Mr.  Father,  you'd  better  go  a  good  walk 
or  look  after  your  business  for  a  time,  while  your  wife 
has  a  rest.  She  needs  one !  " 

"  I'll  bet  she  does." 

"  Nobody  will  bet  with  you,  Tim,  so  you  can  save 
your  money.  Now  then,  Mrs.  Batten,"  said  the  doctor 
to  the  midwife,  "  you  can  clear  these  things  away  now," 
he  signified  some  clothes,  a  kettle  full  of  hot  water,  some 
dishes,  etc.,  "  and  let  Mrs.  Tim  have  a  nice  sleep." 

"  Yes,  Doctor." 

Emmie  slept  and  dreamt  of  wonderful  things,  and 
woke  up  to  find  a  little  bunched-up  bit  of  humanity  with 
fingers  and  toes  which  kept  working,  and  a  pair  of  eyes 
of  a  very  deep  blue  which  ignored  everybody  and  every- 
thing for  the  moment,  but  made  Emmie  speculate  ex- 
travagantly and  wildly. 

The  birth  of  the  little  child  made  a  difference  to  the 
Booke  family  as  well  as  to  the  Timothy  Booke,  Junior, 
household.  A  boy  —  it  had  to  be  Timothy.  It's  grand- 
father and  great  aunts  were  delighted.  Mr.  Booke, 


194  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Senior,  said  very  little,  but  he  found  many  excuses  for 
calling  at  Helston  House  —  rather,  he  found  one  excuse 
very  tempting. 

"How's  th'  little  'un?"  he  would  say,  as  he  put  his 
foot  on  the  threshold,  and  a  thrill  went  through  him  such 
as  might  go  through  deep  waters.  He  was  hugely  de- 
lighted when  little  Timothy  would  catch  at  his  knotty 
finger  and  hold  it  and  then  try  to  chew  it  and  make  little 
eloquent  noises  like  "  Euh.  .  .  .  Euh,"  and  laugh. 

"  He's  all  right,  Emmie." 

"  He's  right  enough,"  said  Emmie  proudly. 

"Is  he  going  to  take  after  you  or  Tim?  .  .  .  Bit  o' 
you  both,  I  think." 

"  I  think  so.     Best,  too." 

And  Emmie  herself  was  also  thrilled  by  her  child's 
ways.  She  wanted  to  press  it  to  her  more  than  to  feel 
it ;  her  emotion  had  to  be  slacked  with  some  effort.  She 
was  enormously  happy  with  it. 

Then,  though  life  settled  again  into  its  groove,  it  was 
a  new  groove,  and  had  its  everlasting  air  of  surprise  for 
Emmie. 

Little  Timothy  was  just  an  additional  big  thing  in  life 
and  life  seemed  to  have  so  many  things  that  were  big 
with  emotion  for  Emmie. 

She  managed  to  do  a  good  deal  of  housework,  as  well 
as  attend  to  her  child.  Ada  was  some  assistance  and 
Tim  suggested  they  should  get  in  a  more  capable  servant 
instead  of  Ada,  but  Emmie,  feeling  grateful  in  some  way 
to  Mrs.  Bane,  said  No,  she  would  get  Mrs.  Wright  in 
two  or  three  days  a  week.  Ada  consequently  took  little 
Tim  out  in  the  perambulator,  and  then  Emmie  would  set 
about  her  cooking  and  cleaning  with  a  zest  that  set  the 
seal  of  ease  on  housewifery  duties. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  195 

Emmie  bathed  the  child  every  night,  for  Ada  could 
not  be  trusted  with  delicate  duties  of  that  kind  by  an 
energetic  and  fond  mother,  and  Tim  would  come  and 
watch  as  Emmie,  with  dress  tucked  up,  and  apron  in  front 
of  her  cooed  to  a  little  baby  in  a  bath,  talked  nonsense 
to  it,  make  it  occasionally  chink  with  laughter,  while  Ada 
stood  with  mouth  open,  watching  the  scene  with  awe  and 
admiration,  and  Tim,  thrilled  beyond  accurate  descrip- 
tion, would  occasionally  kneel  beside  the  bath,  touch  the 
little  fingers  and  try  to  earn  a  rich  laugh  from  his  pre- 
cious child. 

"  He's  a  bonny  'un,"  said  Tim  quietly  to  Emmie,  as 
they  knelt,  one  on  each  side  of  the  bath. 

"  What  did  you  expect  ?  "  said  Emmie  quickly. 

Tim  laughed. 

"  Heigh  up !  "  said  Emmie,  as  she  arranged  a  warm 
towel  across  her  knee.  "  Up-ise,"  she  said,  lifting  the 
dripping  child  and  kissing  him  as  she  wiped.  And  when 
he  was  glowing  and  dry  and  gurgling  with  the  joy  of  it, 
Tim  would  try  to  see  if  those  little  ringers  would  catch 
his  again  and  pinch  little  toes  and  make  faces  —  and  then 
kiss  Emmie. 

"You're  a  pair,"  he  would  whisper. 

"  You're  not  far  out  yourself." 

And  Ada  would  stand  watching,  as  if  she  saw  some- 
thing strange  and  wonderful.  .  .  . 

Emmie  and  Tim  were  looking  at  their  pride  one  night 
when  the  teeth  were  beginning  to  push  their  way  through 
unwilling  gums,  when  little  Tim  suddenly  went  blue  and 
became  rigid  on  his  mother's  knee. 

Emmie  gave  a  cry. 

Tim  said  "Oh,  God!" 

"  It's  a  fit,"  said  Emmie  wildly. 


196  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Tim  said :  "  Do  summat  —  Ada,  run  for  the  doctor 
—  run !  run !  run !  Dr.  Everkith !  Tell  him  to  come  at 
once;  say  baby's  in  a  fit." 

Ada  started  crying,  but  went. 

"  Hot  water,"  said  Emmie,  and  her  voice  was  such  as 
Tim  had  never  heard  it  before.  "  The  bath." 

She  was  white  with  the  shock,  but  somehow  was  work- 
ing steadily  at  something  reasonable.  As  fast  as  she 
could,  she  undressed  the  child,  muttering  all  the  while, 
"  Baby  darling !  darling !  Oh !  " 

She  flung  the  clothes  anywhere. 

"  Bath,  Tim,  quick ;  fill  it  with  hot  water.  Look  at 
him !  Quick !  Quick !  " 

Tim  dashed  about,  got  the  bath,  got  a  big  can  of  boil- 
ing water  and  poured  it  in. 

"  Now  some  cold,"  said  Emmie. 

Tim  brought  it. 

"  Baby !  Baby ! "  Emmie  was  too  busy  to  cry. 
"  It's  a  fit,"  she  said;  "  hold  him." 

Tim  took  his  little  child,  blue  and  stiff.  He  felt  un- 
steady—  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream  almost. 

Emmie  pulled  her  sleeve  up  and  dipped  her  elbow  in 
the  water  to  feel  the  temperature. 

"  Right,  give  him  to  me,"  she  said. 

She  put  little  Tim  in  the  water  up  to  his  armpits. 

"  Some  cold  water  in  his  face,  Tim." 

Tim  rushed  away  and  was  soon  splashing  gently  some 
cold  water  in  his  son's  horribly  ashen  face,  which  was 
now  slightly  less  drawn  and  ghastly. 

"  He's  getting  better,"  said  Emmie.  "  Get  some  castor 
oil." 

She  took  the  cold  water  from  Tim,  and  while  she  held 
the  little  boy  up  with  one  hand  in  the  warm  bath,  she 
flicked  cold  water  on  his  face  with  the  other  hand. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  197 

When  the  doctor  arrived  little  Tim  was  well  again. 

The  father  was  still  pale.  The  shock  had  been  a  griev- 
ous one  to  him. 

"  I  thought  he  was  gone,"  he  said. 

Emmie  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

Dr.  Everkith  said  she  could  not  have  done  better  if  she 
had  been  a  doctor,  and  wanted  to  know  how  she  thought 
of  it.  Emmie  said  she  supposed  her  mother  must  have 
mentioned  fits  to  her  —  she  thought  Sarah  had  had  con- 
vulsions. 

But  they  were  all  impressed  with  Emmie's  presence  of 
mind  and  ability.  It  was  her  first  child;  she  had  never 
before  seen  a  case  of  convulsions.  Even  Mrs.  Holten 
said,  in  her  impressive  way :  "  You  did  very  well,  Em- 
mie —  very  well,  indeed.  I  congratulate  you." 

Miss  Booke  ventured :  "  I  am  glad  to  hear,  Emmie, 
you  kept  your  head ;  that  was  worthy  of  a  Booke." 

Emmie  wanted  to  put  her  tongue  out  at  that,  but  re- 
frained. 

Old  Timothy  quietly  brought  her  a  pearl  and  sapphire 
bracelet. 

"Well  done,  Emmie!"  he  said.  "I  wouldn't  have 
seen  that  child  lost  for  a  thousand  pounds." 

But  Emmie  herself  really  wondered  why  they  all  made 
such  a  fuss  about  it ;  she  felt  capable  of  doing  things  like 
that  at  any  time,  and  she  didn't  lose  her  head  in  a  crisis 
as  easily  as  all  that.  .  .  . 

But  when  she  and  Tim  were  alone  that  night  looking 
at  the  little  figure  in  the  cot,  they  were  both  stirred  to 
an  emotion  that  was  really  too  deep  for  expression. 

The  little  child  was  sleeping  with  a  tiny  hand  out- 
stretched on  the  counterpane.  Tim  looked  at  Emmie. 

"  By  Gum !  "  he  said,  shaking  his  head  and  letting  tone 
and  attitude  say  the  rest. 


198  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Emmie  surprised  both  herself  and  him  by  flinging  her 
arms  round  his  neck  and  crying. 

Emmie's  next  little  baby  was  a  girl,  christened  Alice 
Emily.  Emmie  was  up  a  week  after  the  child  was  born, 
astonishing  the  Booke  ladies  considerably,  for  Mrs.  Hoi- 
ten  had  not  been  so  speedy  a  recoverer  as  that,  and  she 
was  accounted  tough. 

Oddly  enough,  the  Booke  ladies  were  very  pleasant  to 
Emmie  on  account  of  her  robustness.  After  all,  as  she 
was  Tim's  wife,  it  was  really  a  good  thing  she  was  not  an 
invalid. 

They  even  went  so  far,  at  a  propitious  moment,  to  push 
her  on  a  committee  in  connection  with  a  Church  Sewing 
Meeting  with  which  they  were  connected.  Mrs.  Grass 
had  suggested  it.  Miss  Booke  had  wondered  if  it 
wouldn't  turn  Emmie's  head,  but  Mrs.  Holten  made  use 
of  the  now  familiar  phrase:  "  After  all,  she  was  Tim's 
wife  —  she  was  their  niece" — and  so  Emmie  was  duly 
nominated  to  fill  the  vacancy  and  the  Booke  ladies  be- 
haved as  if  they  had  done  something  almost  uncannily 
smart.  They  felt  that  few  other  families  could  have 
arranged  the  affair  so  neatly. 

They  had  warned  Emmie  beforehand  that  they  might 
do  this  great  thing  for  her  —  warned  her  as  solemnly  as 
if  they  said  they  were  inclined  to  think  they  could  get  a 
baronetcy  for  Tim  and  would  do  their  best.  Emmie 
wondered  why  all  the  fuss.  .  .  .  But  Miss  Booke  was 
insistent.  She  ran  over  the  names  of  the  other  members 
of  the  Committee  (save  three  whose  mention  would 
nitrogenize  the  oxygenating  effect  of  those  cited)  and 
then  mentioned  ladies  who  would  be  only  too  pleased  to 
get  on  that  Committee  — "  Be  only  too  pleased,  wouldn't 
they,  Jane?" 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  199 

Jane  said  shortly  she  should  think  so. 

And  Sophia,  being  further  appealed  to,  said  "  most  cer- 
tainly," but  encouraged  Emmie  to  hope  for  the  best. 

And  when  the  election  had  duly  taken  place  and  Emmie 
found  she  was  amongst  the  chosen,  she  was  plentifully 
informed  how  proud  she  ought  to  be  and  how  grateful. 
Miss  Booke  mentioned  the  gratitude. 

Emmie  was  a  little  moved.  She  felt  she  would  meet 
Mrs.  Tom  This  and  Mrs.  Dick  That,  Miss  X  and  Mrs. 
Y  —  all  important  people  in  their  way.  It  was  generally 
termed  "  getting  on,"  and  Emmie  liked  it. 

But  as  she  had  her  hands  pretty  full  at  home  now  and 
Tim's  friends  were  always  very  agreeable  to  her,  she  was 
beginning  to  feel  she  could  afford  to  take  things  easily. 
She  was,  however,  flattered  after  the  first  meeting  of  the 
Committee.  Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  —  both  mem- 
bers—  were  most  attentive  to  her.  The  rector's  wife, 
Mrs.  Sunning,  a  little,  pleasant  lady  with  energy  for  two 
and  a  tact  that  was  generally  breathless  through  trying 
to  keep  pace  with  it  —  was  very  affable  and  welcomed 
her  agreeably,  while  other  members  were  impressive  in 
their  various  attitudes. 

Emmie  listened  with  interest  and  saw  how  Mrs.  X  or 
Miss  Y  had  not  a  word  to  say,  but  just  nodded  acquies- 
cence to  the  stronger  members,  such  as  Mrs.  Holten  or 
Miss  Booke.  And  Emmie  once  thought  of  saying :  "  I 
don't  agree  with  that.  Why  don't  you  do  so  and  so  ?  " 
but  stopped  herself  in  time.  "  What  a  fussy  lot  of  things 
they  are !  "  she  muttered  to  herself.  "  I  could  have  set- 
tled all  that  in  about  one  quarter  of  the  time." 

And  after  the  meeting,  Mrs.  Holten,  having  proposed 
a  resolution,  which  had  been  seconded  by  Miss  Booke 
before  anybody  else  had  a  chance,  walked  home  with  the 
pride  of  one  having  achieved  greatness. 


200  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Emmie  was  not  a  bit  impressed  with  the  things  these 
ladies  did  in  respect  of  their  business,  but  was  affected 
by  the  behaviour  of  one  or  two  who  spoke  with  sweet 
and  low  voices,  suggesting  delicacy  and  refinement. 

The  influence  on  Emmie  of  this  was  to  give  her  more 
and  more  confidence  in  her  comparatively  new  social  stra- 
tum. It  came  to  her  turn  to  arrange  for  some  light  re- 
freshments at  a  gathering  of  sewing  ladies,  visited  at 
thrilling  intervals  during  the  evening,  by  the  rector  and 
the  curate,  the  latter  unmarried,  and  she  managed  so  ad- 
mirably that  it  was  said  no  one  had  ever  done  better. 
As  Emmie  had  cooked  almost  all  the  cakes  herself,  potted 
all  the  meat  for  the  sandwiches  and  done  it  without 
feeling  that  she  was  being  overworked,  she  was  conse- 
quently surprised.  "If  they  go  into  such  a  fuss  over 
a  little  thing  like  that  .  .  ."  was  her  comment  to  her- 
self. 

Then  when  Emmie  had  been  married  six  years,  the 
big  blow  fell.  She  was  opening  a  drawer  in  the  dresser 
and  does  not  know  for  what  purpose,  so  completely  did 
the  shock  knock  everything  else  relating  to  that  moment 
out  of  her  head,  when  Jenks,  a  man  in  the  planking  shop, 
came  running  to  the  door.  Emmie  heard  his  dash  at 
the  yard  gate  and  turned  from  the  dresser  to  look 
through  the  window,  wondering  who  was  coming  in  that 
rather  unceremonious  way. 

The  man's  ashen  face,  open  mouth,  and  wrung  eyes 
gave  her  warning.  He  looked  about  him  in  a  haunted 
fashion. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  thought  Emmie,  impersonally  at 
first,  and  then  with  a  realisation  of  something  dreadful. 

She  opened  the  door. 

"  Eh !     What's  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked,  but  in  the  tone 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  201 

of  one  sympathising  with  another,  not  fearing  for  her- 
self. 

Jenks  hesitated. 

"Eh  .  .  ."  he  said.     "Oh!    Missis.  .  .  ." 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  Emmie  quickly,  feeling  more 
drawn  into  the  middle  of  some  actuality.  "  What  is 
it?" 

"  It's  .  .  .  er  —  th'  mester !  " 

"  Mes  —  oh !  "  she  screamed.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  " 
She  took  Jenks  by  the  shoulder. 

He  apparently  could  not  say  what  he  had  to  say,  for 
he  just  shook  his  head. 

Emmie  saw  that  something  horrible  was  for  her. 

"Ah!" — she  stifled  the  scream.  "Not  Mr.  Tim, 
Jenks.  .  .  .  There  hasn't  been  an  accident  ?  "  She  spoke 
quickly  and  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  as  if  the  next  note 
would  swirl  it  in  emotion.  "Oh!  where  is  he?"  She 
turned  to  the  gate. 

"  Mrs.  Tim.  .  .  .  Missis !  Missis !  They're  bringing 
him." 

Jenks  had  found  his  tongue  as  he  saw  Mrs.  Tim  going 
into  the  factory. 

Emmie  was  met,  however,  by  Ernest  Mullins.  She 
saw  a  crowd  of  all  sorts  of  people  —  men  in  shirt  sleeves 
with  aprons,  no  coats  or  vests,  collars  or  ties,  better 
dressed  men  in  alpaca  jackets  and  wearing  aprons,  a 
crowd  of  trimmers,  and  about  the  scene  floated  a  babel  of 
voices :  "  Now  here.  .  .  .  Look  up !  ...  Get  away, 
there.  .  .  .  Na  then,  Jim !  .  .  .  Get  back,  you  others ! " 
—  and  a  steady  groan  accompanied  it  all. 

"  Go  back,"  said  Ernest  Mullins  to  Emmie ;  "  go  back. 
Didn't  someone  tell  you?"  His  face  was  white,  and 
as  he  held  up  his  hands  to  stop  Emmie  they  trembled  and 
shook. 


202  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Oh !  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Emmie,  her  chin  shaking 
as  she  gave  little  gasps. 

"  Come  on  in  the  house,"  said  Ernest,  as  he  took  her 
by  the  arm.  "It's  best.  It's  —  it's  Mr.  Tim.  .  .  . 
There's  been  an  accident  — " 

"  Oh !  "  She  turned  round,  but  Ernest  stood  in  front 
of  her. 

"  You  can  do  no  good,"  he  said. 

"What!     He's  not  dead!" 

"He  —  he— " 

Emmie  threw  his  arm  away  and  went  swiftly  forward. 
The  crowd  seemed  to  shrink  on  the  edges,  but  in  the 
middle  it  opened  out. 

"  Missis  Tim ! "  said  a  voice,  "  don't  come  now. 
Don't  come  here.  You  can  do  no  good.  Go  in  now,  like 
a  good  woman  — " 

But  Emmie  stared  wildly  at  a  white  and  bloody  form 
lying  on  the  lid  of  a  crate.  She  screamed.  Women 
about  were  weeping  and  moaning. 

"  Is  he  .  .  .  dead  ?  "  said  Emmie,  kneeling  beside  the 
body.  "Tim  .  .  .  Tim  ...  oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  .  .  ." 

Ernest  Mullins's  voice  was  heard  telling  the  trimmers 
to  go  away,  to  go  to  their  work  —  and  the  men,  too. 

"  Let  her  be  a  bit." 

He,  too,  was  deeply  moved. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

NO   one  knew  exactly  how  the  accident  happened. 
It  probably  came  about  in  one  of  those  inexplicable 
ways  that  the  principal  actors  in  the  tragedies  themselves 
cannot  explain,  even  when  they  live. 

Tim  had  gone  into  the  engine  room  and  had  had  a 
little  chat  with  Brown,  the  Engineer,  who  said  he  saw 
nothing  of  what  happened  till  he  heard  a  cry  and  saw  Mr. 
Tim  caught  in  the  straps. 

Brown,  almost  stunned  at  the  sight,  had  sufficient  pres- 
ence of  mind  to  stop  the  engine.  But  Mr.  Tim  was  a 
helpless  mass  when  he  was  picked  up  —  his  back  was 
broken  and  he  died  on  the  floor  of  his  engine  shed. 
When  Emmie  reached  the  body  in  the  yard  it  was  but 
her  husband's  corpse  she  met. 

Emmie's  groans  were  heartrending  and  the  men  just 
stood  about  in  pathetic  attitudes  like  the  helpless  tools  of 
Fate.  Mr.  Bollins  came  out  and  comforted  his  daughter, 
and  he  and  Mullins  led  her  into  the  house. 

Dr.  Everkith  came  soon  but  said  at  once  he  could  do 
nothing  for  Mr.  Tim;  he  told  Mrs.  Tim  she  must  bear 
up  for  the  sake  of  the  little  ones,  and  felt  that  counsel  to 
assuage  grief  was  almost  a  superfluity. 

The  body  was  laid  out  in  the  spare  bedroom  and  the 
police  were  notified. 

Emmie  could  not  keep  away  from  the  corpse  at  first. 
She  could  not  feel  it  was  real.  An  hour  ago  Tim  was 
alive,  walking  about,  having  a  thousand  and  one  things 
dependent  on  his  word  and  will :  now  he  lay  there,  bruised 
and  broken,  never  more  to  speak,  to  look,  to  hear,  to  be 
alive. 

203 


204  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Dead!  Emmie  had  never  been  close  to  death  before. 
She  had  a  faint  remembrance  of  having  gone  to  her 
grandmother's  funeral  but  none  of  her  own  family  had 
died  and  she  had  never  been  in  a  house  with  a  corpse  in 
it.  Face  to  face  with  death  she  saw  its  horror.  She 
would  stare  wildly  at  Tim's  face,  bruised  on  one  side  and 
cut,  but  placid  looking,  hideously  placid  —  the  placidity 
of  death.  It  was  terribly  disturbing,  torturing  even. 

Emmie  sobbed  in  gushes.  It  was  all  so  awful,  so 
tragic,  so  hopeless  ...  so  agonisingly  hopeless. 

"  Tim,"  she  would  murmur,  and  then  shed  her  scald- 
ing tears. 

But  Tim  did  not  respond  as  he  had  always  done  be- 
fore at  the  sound  of  Emmie's  voice. 

The  cruelty  of  death  came  home  poignantly  to  Emmie 
as  she  sat  by  the  bedside  and  called  "  Tim  "  to  the  Tim 
that  would  never  hear  her  again.  Never  again  —  that 
was  her  wracking  thought  .  .  .  still  and  silent  for  ever- 
more. .  .  . 

The  blinds  in  the  house  were  drawn  and  messengers 
were  sent  to  the  relatives. 

The  news  spread  through  the  town  and  dominated 
everything  else. 

"Tim  Booke  dead  — killed.  ...  My  God!  .  .  . 
Young  Tim.  .  .  .  Hasn't  been  married  more  than  about 
five  or  six  year.  .  .  .  He's  only  thirty.  .  .  .  Tim 
Booke.  .  .  ." 

Ernest  Mullins  tried  to  comfort  Emmie,  but  found 
how  poor  a  thing  sympathy  was  in  actual  words,  when 
face  to  face  with  grim  tragedy. 

"  Don't  take  on  so."  He  was  speaking  from  his  own 
heart,  for  it  hurt  him  to  hear  Emmie's  outbursts  of 
grief.  But  what  a  feeble  kind  of  remark  it  was!  He 
did  not  know  what  to  do.  He  knew  he  would  only  stir 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  205 

the  wells  of  her  sorrow  if  he  praised  Tim,  and  so  at  last 
he  just  ventured  to  pat  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"  We'll  all  do  what  we  can  to  help  you.  Some  of  us 
can't  do  much,  but  ...  as  for  the  works,  don't  you 
worry  about  that.  .  .  .  That  will  be  all  right !  " 

"  Oh,  Ernest,"  she  moaned,  "  why  did  it  happen  ? 
Why  was  he  killed?" 

Emmie's  grief  in  a  way  wore  itself  out,  for  it  was 
loosed  afresh  as  each  member  of  the  family  came. 

Mr.  Booke  had  least  to  say.  His  thin  lips  were 
pressed  tightly,  but  they  moved  constantly.  His  face 
was  agonisingly  drawn.  Emmie  almost  forgot  her  own 
grief  in  his.  His  mouth  opened  when  he  saw  Emmie  but 
he  could  not  speak,  and  the  trembling  of  his  lips  was 
acutely  pathetic. 

Emmie  said,  "  Oh ! "  as  she  put  her  arms  round  his 
neck. 

He  nodded  his  head,  but  said  nothing.  He  patted  her 
feebly,  very  feebly  on  the  back.  It  was  almost  as  if  he 
himself  wanted  some  one  to  pat  him.  She  took  his  arm, 
thrust  a  handkerchief  to  her  mouth  as  the  tears  streamed 
down  her  face  and  led  him  to  the  room  where  Tim  lay. 

Timothy  Booke's  feelings  had  their  greatest  fight.  He 
had  suffered  one  or  two  severe  blows  in  his  life,  but  he 
had  borne  them  with  a  fortitude  that  had  been  admirable 
and  out  of  the  common.  He  had  never  allowed  his  emo- 
tions to  get  the  upper  hand,  and  the  love  he  had  had  for 
his  son  was  the  deepest  thing  in  his  life.  He  had  given 
up  hours  upon  hours  as  he  sat  smoking  in  his  easy  chair 
to  building  up  young  Tim's  future.  Not  a  word  had  he 
said  to  others.  If  his  sister  broke  in  on  one  of  these 
building  schemes  with  a,  "  What  are  you  thinking  about, 
Timothy  ?  "  he  would  answer,  "  Oh,  nothing  —  nothing 
particular." 


206  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

And  now  all  the  feelings  he  had  that  were  tender 
seemed  to  be  torn  in  ribbons. 

He  looked  at  Tim  lying  there  and  had  a  feeling  kin 
to  Emmie's.  He  was  surely  not  dead  .  .  .  not  dead 
.  .  .  not  gone  for  ever.  .  .  .  But  he  knew  it  was  true. 
He  put  his  hand  on  Tim's  forehead,  and  the  touch  loosed 
Timothy  Booke's  floodgates. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  the  tears  streamed  down  his 
strong  face.  His  mouth  moved  as  if  it  were  out  of  con- 
trol. He  groaned  once. 

Emmie  sobbed,  for  his  grief  harmonized  with  her 
own.  They  stood  together,  shaking  in  their  common  sor- 
row. 

"  Oh !     Isn't  it  cruel  ?  "  she  said. 

But  he  made  no  reply. 

Mrs.  Holten  came  in  weeping  and  greatly  distressed. 

"  Poor  Tim !  "  she  said.  "  Poor  Tim  ...  oh,  Tim- 
othy! Emmie,  it's  awful."  There  was  no  make-believe 
in  the  grief. 

Timothy  now  had  ceased  to  weep.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
gone  through  the  crisis  and  could  now  bear  his  lot.  He 
looked  haggard,  as  if  something  vital  had  gone  out  of 
him. 

Miss  Booke  and  Mrs.  Grass  came  and  were  quickly  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Holten  and  Mr.  Grass,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bol- 
lins  and  Sarah. 

The  moaning  was  general.  Emmie  felt,  too,  the  kind- 
ness of  people,  for  every  one  sympathised  with  her.  The 
Bookes  in  the  midst  of  their  sorrow  did  their  best  to  com- 
fort her.  She  was  his  widow.  The  bitter  tongues  were 
stayed  completely  with  that  still  figure  lying  in  the  bed- 
room upstairs. 

After  the  shock  there  was  a  concensus  of  praise  for  the 
dead  man.  "  He  was  so  gentle  ...  so  honourable  .  .  . 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  207 

so  true  ...  so  kind  ...  so  sweet-tempered  .  .  .'  so  re- 
liable." 

The  very  mention  of  his  virtues  brought  fresh  tears  to 
Emmie's  eyes  and  to  all  the  women. 

"  And  the  little  children,  too  .  .  .  orphans  so  soon." 

"  And  he  so  fond  of  them !  " 

"  Yes  " —  and  then  followed  little  tales  of  Tim's  say- 
ings and  doings. 

Friends  kept  calling  to  know  if  the  news  were  really 
true,  or  to  offer  condolence. 

Emmie  had  refused  food:  she  wanted  nothing.  But 
she  was  prevailed  on  at  last  to  eat,  "  for  the  children's 
sake."  Emmie  wept  over  them,  till  they  looked  at  her 
wonderingly  and  asked  why  mummy  cried. 

Mr.  Grass  and  Mr.  Holten  undertook  to  make  all  ar- 
rangements for  the  funeral  so  that  Emmie  need  not  be 
troubled  at  all. 

Mrs.  Bollins  offered  to  sleep  with  Emmie  and  Mrs. 
Holten  and  Mrs.  Grass  said  it  would  be  very  nice  for 
Emmie  to  have  her  mother  with  her  at  a  time  like  this. 

And  just  before  she  went  to  bed,  when  all  the  visitors 
had  gone,  Emmie  went  to  look  at  Tim  once  more.  Mrs. 
Bollins  crept  behind  her. 

Emmie  stood  looking  at  her  young  husband,  cut  off 
in  the  very  springtide  of  his  life.  A  white  sheet  covered 
him,  and  Emmie  turned  it  down  to  look  at  his  face.  The 
gas  jet  flared  from  the  wall  and  shed  a  slightly  yellow 
light.  Immovable.  .  .  .  Never  to  stir  again.  .  .  . 
Never  —  that  was  the  tragic  word  —  never.  ...  So 
young,  too  ...  a  husband,  a  father,  a  friend,  a 
man.  .  .  . 

Both  Emmie  and  Mrs.  Bollins  wept  as  they  stood  there 
looking. 


208  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  It  doesn't  seem  fair,  Mother,"  sobbed  Emmie. 

"  No.     It's  something  hard  to  bear." 

"  But  him,  Mother  ...  so  young.  .  .  .  It's  only  like 
yesterday  that  we  were  walking  out.  .  .  .  And  he  was 
only  talking  this  morning  of  what  he  was  going  to  do  this 
wakes.  .  .  ." 

"  We  don't  understand  everything  ...  we  must  just 
bear  it." 

"  But  it's  him,  Mother  —  Tim.  .  .  .  Him,  so  young, 
too." 

"  I  think  I'd  come  to  bed  now,  Emmie :  you  were  a  good 
wife  to  him.  He  was  very  happy:  that's  one  comfort." 

Emmie  kissed  Tim's  forehead,  replaced  the  sheet,  and 
left  a  flicker  of  gas  burning. 

The  next  day  Emmie  received  numerous  callers  and 
letters  of  sympathy.  Everybody  spoke  well  of  the  dead 
man  and  a  great  stream  of  comfort  flowed  to  the  young 
widow  and  her  children. 

Ernest  Mullins  called  and  assured  Emmie  that  she 
need  not  worry  about  the  business :  he  would  see  that  was 
not  neglected. 

Mr.  Booke  came  again  and  was  very  quiet.  He  went 
to  see  the  body  and  moved  his  head  from  side  to  side  as 
if  his  blow  was  very  hard  to  bear. 

Mrs.  Holten,  Mrs.  Grass  and  Miss  Booke  also  came. 
They  were  full  of  sympathy  and  advice.  They  arranged 
for  Emmie's  mourning  and  helped  so  far  as  they  could. 

There  was  an  inquest,  but  it  was  a  formal  affair  and  the 
verdict  was  "  Accidental  death,"  with  an  expression  of 
sympathy  for  the  family  of  the  deceased. 

As  each  day  passed  Emmie  began  to  realise  the  facts 
more  clearly.  Tim  was  dead.  She  had  no  husband. 
She  was  a  widow.  The  life  that  she  had  led  as  the  wife 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  209 

of  Timothy  Booke  was  at  an  end,  and  a  new  life  had  now 
begun,  that  as  Mrs.  Timothy  Booke,  widow,  with  two 
little  children,  aged  respectively  five  and  three.  Things 
that  had  been  done  before  by  her  husband  would  now 
have  to  be  done  by  her :  decisions  he  had  made  would  now 
have  to  be  made  by  her.  She  had  no  guide  and  com- 
panion now. 

And  what  was  her  position? 

Mr.  Booke  had  whispered  to  her  the  day  after  Tim's 
death :  "  You  needn't  worry  about  the  future,  Emmie : 
that  will  be  all  right." 

But  Mr.  Bowfield,  Tim's  solicitor,  had  said  when  he 
called :  "  I  don't  know  if  your  husband  has  left  another 
will  —  I  shouldn't  think  so  —  but  he  made  one  three 
months  after  your  marriage  and  he  has  left  you  every- 
thing." 

Emmie  had  a  vague  idea  that  if  a  husband  died  the 
widow  got  everything  and  so  took  little  notice  of  the  in- 
formation. Moreover,  she  had  enough  to  occupy  her 
without  thinking  strenuously  of  these  things,  even  though 
she  were  occasionally  disturbed  by  some  chance  remark 
or  some  casual  thought  concerning  them. 

The  funeral  was  very  impressive.  It  took  place  at 
Christ  Church  and  from  Helston  House  to  the  Church 
gates  the  blinds  were  down  in  almost  all  the  houses  as  the 
sad  procession  passed. 

Mr.  Booke  and  Emmie  went  in  the  first  carriage. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bollins  and  Sarah  were  in  the  next  and 
then  followed  the  members  of  the  Booke  family  and 
friends. 

The  tribute  paid  to  Tim,  the  last  it  was  possible  to  pay 
him,  was  remarkable  in  its  genuineness  and  in  its  ex- 
tent. 


210  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Sarah,  looking  through  the  window  of  the  carriage, 
said:  "  It  looks  as  if  everybody  were  here!  " 

"  I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Bollins. 

"  No,"  echoed  Mrs.  Bollins,  and  she  meant  to  convey 
a  great  deal  by  that. 

And  after  a  pause  Sarah  said,  "  And  to  think  it's  our 
Emmie." 

"  Ay,"  said  Mr.  Bollins. 

"  Yes,"  echoed  Mrs.  Bollins. 

At  the  Church  gate  when  the  carriages  stopped,  Emmie 
shook  and  burst  into  fresh  tears.  This  was  the  threshold 
of  the  end.  Now  she  was  about  to  part  with  Tim  for- 
ever :  this  was  the  last  stage.  Mr.  Booke  put  a  hand  on 
her  arm,  but  found  it  very  difficult  to  say  anything.  He 
had  reached  a  stage  in  life  when  the  clouds  do  not  dis- 
perse quickly.  The  sun  might  shine  again  for  Emmie 
but  not  for  him. 

Emmie  nestled  to  him  as  she  wept. 

"  It's  the  end,"  she  gasped. 

"  Ay,"  said  Timothy. 

There  was  a  crowd  round  the  gate,  men,  women  and 
children,  but  mostly  women.  Some  of  them  were  well 
dressed,  they  were  there  out  of  a  feeling  of  kinship  with 
humanity  that  suffered.  Many  were  simply  curious.  A 
greaV  number  of  the  women  were  trimmers.  All  Booke's 
were  there  and  the  whole  route  traversed  by  the  hearse 
and  cortege  had  its  stand  of  watchers. 

As  Mr.  Booke  and  Emmie  got  out  of  the  carriage,  the 
tongues  wagged.  "  That's  Mr.  Booke.  .  .  .  His  father. 
.  .  .  Isn't  he  aged?  He's  ten  years  older.  .  .  .  He's  a 
broken  man.  .  .  .  That's  his  wife.  .  .  .  She's  pretty, 
isn't  she  ?  .  .  .  She  was  Emmie  Bollins  —  used  to  trim 
at  th'  Booke's.  .  .  .  She  is  pretty.  .  .  .  She's  got  some 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  211 

good  clothes  on.  ...  She'll  feel  it.  ...  He  was  a  nice 
chap  was  Mr.  Tim.  .  .  .  Here's  her  father  and  mother 
—  that's  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bollins  —  he  works  at  Booke's. 
And  that's  her  sister:  she  trims  at  Spencer's.  That's 
Mrs.  Holten  —  Timothy  Booke's  sister.  .  .  .  It  is.  .  .  . 
It  isn't.  .  .  ." 

There  was  quite  a  crush  at  the  gate,  so  eager  were  the 
sightseers  to  see  what  was  going  on. 

The  coffin  was  carried  by  men  from  the  works. 

Mr.  Booke  and  Emmie  followed.  All  the  mourners 
were  in  deep  black  and  Air.  Booke  had  a  thick  black 
mourning  band  round  his  silk  hat.  Emmie  wore  a  long 
crepe  veil. 

Mr.  Sunning  accompanied  by  his  curate,  the  Rev.  John 
O'Kelly,  stood  waiting  for  the  procession  to  get  in  order. 

Mr.  Samuel  Orde,  who  had  charge  of  the  funeral  ar- 
rangements, was  handing  out  wreaths.  The  coffin  was 
covered  with  them,  and  the  effect  of  the  floral  tributes 
was  very  moving  amongst  the  people.  Women  cried  as 
the  flowers  were  put  on  the  coffin,  and  carried  by  the  men 
from  the  works:  there  seemed  to  be  some  emotional 
power  in  these  frail  beautiful  things.  The  women  who 
wept  as  they  saw  them  were  probably  incapable  of  saying 
precisely  why  they  wept. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Sunning,  receiving  a  nod  from  Mr.  Orde 
to  tell  him  that  all  was  ready,  repeated :  "  '  I  am  the-Res- 
urrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord.' ' 

The  tones  and  the  words  flung  a  new  note  into  the 
ceremonial  for  many.  The  religious  heard  it  with  com- 
fort :  this  death  was  but  the  gate  of  life  ..."  who- 
soever liveth  and  believeth  in  Me  shall  never  die." 

Mr.  Booke  and  Emmie  did  not  hear  to  understand. 
This  was  the  last  formula  for  them.  They  caught  mere 
glimpses  of  phrases.  .  .  .  " '  For  man  walketh  in  a  vain 


212  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

shadow  and  disquieteth  himself  in  vain:  he  heapeth  up 
riches  and  cannot  tell  who  shall  gather  them.' ' 

The  words  of  the  Burial  Service  were  a  balm  and  a 
healing  for  some.  They  saw  light  in  the  darkness  and 
hope  in  the  gloom.  But  the  words :  "  We  therefore 
commit  his  body  to  the  ground:  earth  to  earth,  ashes  to 
ashes,  dust  to  dust "  had  but  the  grim  reality  for  Mr. 
Booke  and  Emmie  at  least  amongst  the  mourners 

"  Ashes  to  ashes  .  .  .  dust  to  dust."  .  .  .  That  was 
the  end. 

Mr.  Booke  stood  without  moving,  having  the  air  of 
one  numbed  with  the  blow. 

Emmie  was  weeping. 

Mr.  Holten  took  Emmie's  arm  as  Mrs.  Holten  took 
Timothy's.  They  drove  back  to  Helston  House.  There 
the  friends  and  relatives  talked  of  many  things.  Some 
were  reminded  of  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  who 
had  died  that  year :  others  mentioned  Spurgeon  .  .  .  min- 
isters and  clergy  were  discussed  .  .  .  and  business. 

Emmie  was  told  to  lie  down  and  rest. 

There  was  an  excellent  tea  provided:  cold  meats,  of 
course,  but  those  of  the  best  and  in  many  varieties.  The 
friends  left  first. 

Miss  Booke  said  to  Mrs.  Grass :  "  I  suppose  Emmie 
will  be  comfortably  off:  she'll  have  a  living  in  any  case. 
I  suppose  Timothy  will  go  on  with  the  works." 

Mrs.  Grass  shook  her  head. 

"  From  what  Timothy  said  to  Fred,  I  understand  the 
works  are  Emmie's." 

Miss  Booke  looked  very  surprised. 

"  What !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  Emmie's  .  .  .  the  works. 
...  In  a  sense,  but  she'll  have  to  do  what  Timothy 
says." 

Mrs.  Grass  shook  her  head. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  213 

"  I  don't  understand  it  all,  but  I  think  Emmie  can  do 
what  she  likes  —  they  are  hers :  it's  all  hers." 

Miss  Booke  went  to  Mrs.  Holten  to  beg  for  confirma- 
tion. Mrs.  Holten  apparently  had  just  learnt  the  truth. 

"  You  see  Timothy  gave  the  works  and  the  house  to 
Tim :  well,  Tim  made  a  will  and  left  everything  to  Em- 
mie." 

"Oh,  but—" 

"  She  could  sell  the  works  if  she  wanted,"  said  Mrs. 
Holten. 

"  Sell :  but  we  must  have  no  nonsense  of  that  kind. 
Emmie's  not  going  to  do  as  she  likes.  Where's  Mr. 
Bowfield?" 

But  Mr.  Bowfield  explained  to  Mrs.  Holten  and  to  Miss 
Booke  that  Emmie's  property  was  her  own  to  do  as  she 
liked  with. 

The  Booke  ladies  sought  their  husbands  and  talked  the 
matter  over,  getting  no  further  forwards  towards  what 
they  desired  but  gathering  confirmation  of  their  fears. 

When  Emmie  came  down,  looking  very  well  in  crepe, 
though  pale  with  the  ordeal,  Miss  Booke  said :  "  I  sup- 
pose, Emmie,  now  you'll  be  glad  if  Mr.  Booke  looks  after 
the  business  again." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Emmie,  with  a  weary  air,  as  if 
she  did  not  wish  to  be  bothered  with  business  at  this  time. 

Miss  Booke  hesitated.  After  all,  the  time  was  not 
quite  one  for  the  discussion  of  affairs.  But  Booke  &  Son 
.  .  .  those  works. 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Booke,  "  you  can't  be  troubled 
now :  but  we  must  find  some  way  of  seeing  that  the  busi- 
ness goes  on.  I  hear  Tim  has  left  you  everything." 

Emmie  nodded. 

Mrs.  Holten,  trying  to  be  discreet,  was  observant  and 
attentive.  She  said  tactfully:  "We  shall  help  you  all 


214  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

we  can,  Emmie:  and  if  Timothy  will  manage  the  works 
again  it  will  relieve  it,  won't  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Emmie. 

Miss  Booke  drew  herself  up. 

Mrs.  Holten  pressed  her  lips  together. 

Then  the  children,  who  had  just  been  brought  from 
the  Grass's,  came  in,  and  rushed  to  their  mother,  who 
seized  them  emotionally  to  cry  over  them. 

"I  know  what's  the  matter,"  said  Tim;  "daddy's 
dead." 

Emmie  bit  her  lip  and  pulled  the  boy  to  her. 

"I  want  daddy,  mammy — " 

"  Me,  too,"  said  Alice.  "  Baby  want  daddy.  .  .  . 
Where  daddy?" 

Mr.  Holten  suggested  to  his  wife  they  had  better  go: 
they  were  only  tiring  Emmie  now  and  could  do  nothing 
more  to  help  her. 

Mr.  Booke  said  as  he  was  going  out :  "  I'll  come  and 
see  how  you're  going  on,  Emmie.  And  there's  th'  shop, 
too :  we  can  have  a  talk  about  it." 

"  Come  when  you  like,"  she  said,  "  the  oftener  the 
better." 

He  bent  down  his  head  and  went  away. 

Sarah  stayed  with  Emmie  on  the  night  of  the  funeral. 

"  That  Miss  Booke's  a  stuck-up  thing,"  she  said. 
"  What's  this,  Emmie  —  is  the  shop  yours  ? "  By 
"  shop  "  she  meant  the  factory. 

Emmie  nodded. 

"  What  —  your  own  ?  Are  you  the  boss  ?  Could  you 
sack  anybody  if  you  wanted?" 

Emmie  was  silent  for  a  moment.  The  phrase  had 
suddenly  given  her  a  vision  of  power.  "  Sack  anybody 
if  she  wanted."  ...  Of  course.  .  .  .  Yet  she  had  not 
thought  of  that.  She  owned  "  T.  Booke  &  Son."  .  .  . 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  215 

It  was  hers.  This  was  like  a  dream,  a  fairy  story.  She, 
who  once  was  a  trimmer,  to  own  the  place. 

And  then  she  suddenly  gave  a  gasp  and  burst  into  tears. 

Sarah  went  to  her. 

"  What  is  it  ?    Don't  fret  so,  Emmie." 

"  I'd  rather  be  a  trimmer  again  and  have  Tim,"  she 
managed  to  say  between  her  sobs. 

"  You  mustn't  keep  thinking  of  things  like  that,"  said 
Sarah.  "  You've  two  children  —  and  them  works  to 
think  of." 

As  Emmie  took  off  the  crepe  bodice,  with  its  inflated 
sleeves  at  the  shoulders,  she  said  to  herself  — "  those 
works  to  think  of." 

She  held  out  her  bodice  and  looked  at  it. 

Sarah  said :     "  Sleeves  are  going  bigger,  they  say." 

"  They're  big  enough,"  said  Emmie. 

"  I  suppose  all  this  is  yours  now,  Emmie."  Sarah  was 
looking  at  the  furniture. 

Emmie  followed  Sarah's  regard.  But  she  looked  at 
the  bed.  .  .  .  That  was  where  Tim  had  slept. 

She  gasped  and  fought  with  her  tears. 

"  Get  into  bed,"  said  Sarah.  "  You  mustn't  go  on 
fretting  like  that." 

Emmie  said  to  herself:  "Oh!  what  a  funny  thing 
life  is!" 


PART  THREE: 
THE    EVERLASTING    WOMAN 


PART  THREE:    THE  EVERLASTING 
WOMAN 

CHAPTER  XVII 

EMMIE  at  her  rising  (and  in  fact  at  breakfast,  at 
dinner  and  almost  at  every  other  moment)  was  re- 
minded of  her  loss.  She  kept  seeing  Tim  in  some  accus- 
tomed attitude,  smiling  at  her,  making  some  remark, 
catching  hold  of  her.  ...  It  was  very  trying  to  her 
feelings.  How  people  lived  on  after  death !  And  lived, 
too,  just  as  they  had  behaved  in  life.  ...  It  was  by  their 
deeds  they  were  remembered.  Tim's  smiles  and  jokes 
and  comfortable  speech  were  just  the  things  that  came 
to  Emmie  now.  And  yet  how  hopeless,  how  utterly  ir- 
revocable it  all  was!  .  .  .  How  memories  haunted  one! 

Sarah  had  to  go  to  work  and  just  before  she  left,  Em- 
mie said :  "  I  wish  you'd  call  on  Mr.  Bowfield  and  ask 
him  if  he'd  mind  coming  to  see  me.  I'd  like  to  under- 
stand my  position  properly,  and  I  didn't  pay  enough 
attention  to  him  yesterday." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sarah,  "  I'll  call  as  I  pass." 
She  was  enjoying  her  breakfast  with  Emmie,  for  it 
was  really  luxurious  to  sit  down  in  this  spacious  kitchen 
where  everything  was  bright  and  clean  and  substantial, 
and  there  seemed  an  almost  unlimited  supply  of  crockery 
and  cutlery,  and  the  table-linen  was  so  white,  and  the 
table,  even  for  breakfast,  was  set  all  over  and  not  merely 
at  one  corner,  with  the  rest  of  it  covered  with  hat  trim- 
mings, paste,  scissors  and  an  almost  indescribable  litter 
such  as  she  was  regularly  accustomed  to  at  home. 

219 


220  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

She  thought  of  Emmie's  position.  This  was  hers. 
She  could  do  what  she  wanted  in  this  big  house. 

"  Eh,  Emmie,"  she  said,  stirred  by  her  thoughts. 

"What?"  asked  Emmie. 

"  Nothing.  Well,  I  was  just  thinking.  Of  course, 
Mr.  Bowfield'll  tell  you  .  .  .  but  if  this  is  all  yours  .  .  . 
and  the  shop !  Eh !  ..." 

"  We'll  soon  find  out,"  said  Emmie,  quickly. 

"If  it  is  so,  and  I  expect  it  is,"  said  Sarah,  "  what 
will  you  do?  " 

"Do?" 

"Yes.  What  will  you  do?  You  can't  manage  a 
works." 

"  You  don't  suppose  I  shall  give  'em  away,  do  you  ?  " 

Sarah  smiled. 

"  No,  but  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Something.     I'll  see,"  said  Emmie. 

Then  little  Tim  wanted  something  from  Auntie  Sarah, 
and  Alice  was  coaxed  by  her  mother  to  finish  her  bread 
and  milk. 

"Tim  going  to  school  to-day?"  Sarah  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  "  he'll  be  better  there." 

But  Tim  said  he  didn't  want  to  go,  he  wanted  a  holi- 
day, and  Emmie  realised  how  that  before,  when  she  had 
wished  to  persuade  him  to  do  something,  she  had  threat- 
ened to  "tell  Daddy."  She  knew  it  was  mean  and  cow- 
ardly holding  up  the  father  as  a  mere  punitive  being, 
while  she  tried  to  snatch  all  the  affection  she  could,  but 
almost  all  women  did  it.  She  saw,  however,  she  would 
have  to  be  decided  and  purposeful  in  her  dealings  with  the 
children  now.  They  would  owe  their  training  to  her. 
This  tiny  revolt  of  Tim's  could  not  be  handed  over  to 
some  one  else  to  deal  with,  while  she  came  in  like  a  camp 
follower  for  the  subsequent  kisses  of  comfort. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  221 

"  No,  Tim  —  school  to-day." 

"  But  I  don't  want,  mammy.     I  don't  want  — " 

Emmie  screwed  up  her  resolution.  Sarah  wanted  to 
say,  "  Oh,  let  him  stay  to-day,  poor  little  orphan !  " 

"  You've  had  a  little  holiday,  Tim  dear :  you  must  go 
to-day.  .  .  .  Daddy  would  have  liked  it." 

Tim  looked  awed. 

"  How  do  you  know  daddy  would  have  liked  it, 
mammy  ?  " 

"  I  do,  darling." 

"How?" 

"  Because  daddy  said  so." 

"When?" 

"  He  always  said  so,  darling." 

"When?" 

Emmie's  chin  began  to  shake. 

Sarah  said :  "  Now  be  a  good  boy,  Tim,  and  don't 
make  mammy  cry." 

Tim  looked  at  his  mother.  He  appeared  to  be  greatly 
perplexed. 

"  Mammy,"  he  said,  quietly,  stroking  her  face,  "  when 
did  daddy  say  that  ?  " 

"Always,  darling,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Always.  .  .  .  Was  he  always  saying  he  liked  me  to 
go  to  school  ?  What  did  he  say,  mammy  ?  " 

"  I  can't  remember  the  exact  words,  darling,  but  you 
know  he  did  want  you  to  go  regularly  and  you  always 
will,  won't  you?  " 

Tim  nodded  his  head  thoughtfully. 

"  I  wonder  why  Daddy  wanted  me  to  go  to  school," 
he  said,  as  if  the  problem  troubled  him. 

Alice  said :     "  Mammy !  " 

"Well,  darling?" 

"  Did  Daddy  want  baby  to  go,  too  ?  "       . 


222  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Emmie  pressed  the  child  to  her:  her  emotions  were 
stirred. 

"  Yes,  dear  —  when  you  are  old  enough." 

"  When  baby  old  enough,"  repeated  Alice,  gathering 
some  of  her  bread  and  milk  off  the  tablecloth  with  her 
spoon. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  off,"  said  Sarah.  "  Shall  I  come 
to-night?" 

"If  you  like.     Yes,  come.     It  will  be  company." 

Ada  took  Tim  to  school,  one  kept  by  two  young  ladies, 
and  had  Alice  also  with  her. 

Mrs.  Wright  came  in  to  help,  for  Emmie  found  she 
had  plenty  to  do  just  now.  The  fact  that  she  was  plen- 
tifully occupied  was,  too,  a  safety  valve  for  her  grieving. 
She  had  to  take  her  mind  off  her  loss  and  was  conse- 
quently better  able  to  bear  the  pangs  when  sorrow  came 
to  her  on  the  wings  of  association  and  recollection. 

Mr.  Bowfield  was  a  comparatively  young  man.  He 
had  been  a  friend  of  Tim's  and  knew  exactly  what  Tim 
had  wished  to  do.  He  was  pleasant- faced,  reliable  look- 
ing, with  a  comforting  professional  manner. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Tim,  I  expect  you'd  like  to  know  exactly 
how  you  stand,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  in  the  dining-room  with 
Emmie. 

The  blinds  were  up  now :  not  to  the  top,  for  that  would 
have  looked  as  if  they  were  rather  too  eager  to  be  normal 
the  moment  the  body  had  left  the  house.  Mrs.  Wright 
said  —  to  herself  — "  I'll  pull  'em  up  half  way.  It  won't 
be  so  melancholy  and  it'll  be  feelin'." 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  in  reply  to  the  lawyer.  She  had 
thrown  off  her  apron  and  received  Mr.  Bowfield  dressed 
in  a  black  stuff  skirt  and  black  cotton  blouse,  which 
blended  almost  mournfully  with  her  thick  black  hair  and 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  223 

black  brows.  Her  brown  eyes  were  very  brown  and 
bright. 

"  Well,  as  I  hinted  to  you  —  everything  Tim  possessed 
is  yours.  It's  very  nice,  you  know,  that  is,  Mrs.  Tim,  for 
it  shows  he  ...  well  he  appreciated  you." 

Emmie's  eyes  twitched  and  her  mouth  was  only  with 
difficulty  kept  under  control. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bowfield.  "  He  made  his  will  after  he 
was  married,  so  he  knew  what  he  was  doing." 

Emmie  nodded.  She  was  feeling  a  person  of  im- 
portance, discussing  business  with  a  solicitor.  She  had 
never  had  to  deal  direct  on  matters  of  business  before 
and  the  situation  moved  her  a  little.  But  as  Mr.  Bow- 
field  emphasised  the  figure  of  Tim,  she  was  moved  in 
another  direction. 

He  went  on :  "I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  Tim  made 
his  will  especially  to  make  things  easy  for  you.  I  told 
him  that  if  he  died  without  a  will,  you  wouldn't  suffer; 
but  he  said  he'd  make  things  sure." 

Emmie  nodded.  How  good  had  Tim  been  to  her! 
He  had  cared  for  her.  And  he  had  been  happy,  too. 

She  said  after  a  pause:  "  Well,  what  is  my  position? 
Tim's  left  me  what  he  had.  I've  the  two  children  to 
bring  up.  What  have  I  got  to  bring  them  up  on?  " 

"  So  far  as  I  can  make  out,  you've  got  a  business,  a 
row  of  cottages  off  Hyde  Road  that  bring  in  about  — 
say  net  £150.  There  are  some  shares,  £500,  in  a  Spin- 
ning Company  —  and  that's  all  I  can  find." 

"  What  does  that  make  ?  "  asked  Emmie.  "  About 
£150  and  that  interest  —  and  the  works." 

"That's  it:  say  £170  and  the  works." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  the  works  bring  in  ?  " 

"  Well,  Tim  did  say  once  to  me  he'd  made  a  clear 
profit  of  £1,500." 


224  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  Fifteen  hundred  pounds  —  how  much  is  that  a 
week?" 

"  Thirty." 

"  Thirty  pounds  a  week."  Emmie  understood  her  in- 
come clearly.  She  had  been  overjoyed  on  those  occa- 
sions in  the  past  when  she  had  earned  thirty  shillings  a 
week,  and  here  she  was  comfortably  assured  of  thirty 
pounds.  She  was  astonished.  She  had  never  known 
what  Tim's  income  was.  She  had  been  afraid  to  ask 
lest  Tim  should  think  she  was  considering  his  money 
too  much. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Bowfield,  "  I  can't  guarantee 
those  figures.  That  was  one  year,  and  it  may  have  been 
a  good  year  or  a  bad  one,  but  I  shouldn't  think  it  was 
extra  good  —  or  bad.  T.  Booke  &  Son  have  got  a  good 
connection,  you  know." 

"Yes." 

He  paused. 

Emmie  was  thinking.    "  Thirty  pounds  a  week !  " 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  act  for  you,  Mrs.  Tim,  as  I 
did  for  Tim." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Emmie.  "  I  hope  I  shan't 
have  much  for  you,  but  what  I  have  —  I  suppose  you 
acted  for  the  business,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  that's  all  right  —  so  long  as  it  is  all  right," 
she  said  with  a  smile. 

He  smiled,  too.     He  respected  her  frankness. 

"  I'll  see  it's  all  right,"  he  said.  He  was  beginning  to 
think  that  Tim  had  chosen  very  well  when  he  married: 
Mrs.  Tim  was  no  fool. 

"  Who  collects  the  rents  of  those  cottages?  "  she  asked. 
"  Aren't  they  in  Gore  Street?  " 

"  Yes.     I  think  Tim  used  to  go  himself,  or  send  some- 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  225 

body.  I  got  them  last  Monday,  so  that  they  shouldn't 
be  overlooked,  and  if  you  like  I'll  go  on  collecting  them." 

Emmie  was  silent  a  moment. 

"  I  suppose  you'd  charge  for  it?" 

"  Just  the  usual  commission,  and  I'd  see  to  all  the 
repairs  and  lettings." 

"  H'm  ...  I  think  I  can  do  it,  thanks.  It  will  mean 
going  round  on  a  Monday  morning." 

Bowfield  was  saying  to  himself :  "  And  some  of  them 
tried  to  sneer  at  Tim's  wife.  .  .  .  I'd  like  'em  to  have  a 
deal  with  her." 

"  You  can  send  one  of  your  men." 

Emmie  nodded.  "  Send  one  of  your  men ! "  The 
very  phrase  was  grandiose.  "  Send  one  of  your  men !  " 
Her  father  and  mother  lived  in  that  little  cottage  in  Sil- 
ton  Street,  and  she  had  been  a  trimmer  and  worn  clogs. 
Now  it  was,  "  send  one  of  your  men !  " 

Her  bosom  heaved.  She  liked  talking  business  with 
the  lawyer.  A  little  colour,  had  come  into  her  cheeks 
and  there  was  a  fine  vivacity  in  her  eyes. 

"  The  works  are  yours,  too,  Mrs.  Tim,"  he  said. 

"  Yes.  ...  I'd  like  to  know  exactly  what  that  means." 

"  It  means  that  you  can  shut  them  up  to-morrow  if  you 
want.  You  can  work  them,  sell  them  —  do  what  you 
like  with  them.  They're  yours  —  lock,  stock  and  bar- 
rel, bricks  and  mortar,  machinery,  engines  —  every- 
thing." 

Emmie  nodded  understanding.  Everything  .  .  .  hers 
...  to  work  or  sell.  ...  It  was  colossal. 

"  I  don't  know  if  you've  made  up  your  mind  what  to 
do,"  he  said.  "  Haven't  had  time,  perhaps.  .  .  ." 

"  N-no." 

"  You  could  probably  turn  them  into  a  Company.  You 
might  get  twenty  thousand,  though  perhaps  fifteen  or 


226  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

sixteen  would  be  nearer  the  mark.  There's  money  still 
made  out  of  hats,  but  people  won't  sink  money  in  hat- 
ting just  now  .  .  .  very  cut  the  trade  is." 

"  And  Tim  made  fifteen  hundred  pounds." 

"  Yes,  that's  true.  Of  course,  you'll  get  the  exact  fig- 
ures from  the  books.  Tim  had  a  manager  —  Ernest 
Mullins:  he's  reliable,  I  think." 

"Yes.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  pause. 

Mr.  Bowfield  rose. 

"  I  don't  know  if  there's  anything  else,  Mrs.  Tim.  I 
am  always  at  your  service,  you  know.  Anything  I  can 
do  in  the  way  of  help  or  advice  —  quite  outside  business, 
my  business  —  I  shall  only  be  too  glad  to  do.  Tim  was 
a  friend  of  mine." 

Emmie  swallowed. 

"  Thanks.  .  .  .  You're  very  good.  Just  for  the  mo- 
ment I'm  taking  stock.  I'm  very  much  obliged,  Mr. 
Bowfield.  Come  out  this  way,"  and  she  showed  him  out 
by  the  front  door. 

She  went  back  into  the  dining-room  and  stood  there 
as  if  she  would  quietly  assimilate  what  she  had  learnt. 
The  business  of  T.  Booke  &  Son,  everything  about  it, 
bricks  and  mortar,  machinery,  materials,  et  cetera,  et 
cetera,  were  hers  .  .  .  hers.  .  .  . 

She  sat  down.  She  realised  her  position  in  a  wave  of 
emotion.  It  was  something  disturbing  for  her  to  be  sud- 
denly given  power  like  this.  To  own  a  hat  works.  .  .  . 
She  knew  nothing  like  it.  She  supposed  that  if  a  hat 
manufacturer  had  died  before  he  had  always  had  a  son 
old  enough  to  carry  on  the  business. 

Of  course  she  could  sell.  .  .  .  Sell?  .  .  .  Tim's 
works  .  .  .  T.  Booke  &  Son's.  .  .  .  No!  No!  There 
was  the  little  Tim  coming  on.  Yes,  there  was  a  Timothy 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  227 

Booke  growing  up  who  must  some  day  inherit  those 
works.  So  they  must  be  kept  going  — 

Mrs.  Wright  came  to  the  door. 

"  There's  Hester  Mullins  'ere." 

"Oh!     Show  him  in." 

Ernest  came  in  wearing  a  black  alpaca  jacket  and  a 
black  apron.  His  black  tie  was  a  cheap  one  but  his  linen 
seemed  fairly  clean.  He  had  generally  a  neat  and  tidy 
air.  He  was  a  light  complexioned,  capable  looking  man, 
of  no  particular  distinction  in  his  appearance,  but  inter- 
esting to  the  discerning.  His  nose  was  broad  and  not 
small  though  it  could  not  be  glibly  described  by  any  of 
the  recognised  shapes;  his  mouth  was  full  and  covered 
with  a  sandy  moustache;  his  jaw  was  assuringly  good 
and  his  brow  was  inclined  both  to  be  broad  and  high, 
while  his  blue  eyes  had  a  steady  reliable  look. 

"  Come  in,  Ernest,"  said  Emmie.  "  Sit  down.  I've 
just  had  Mr.  Bowfield  here." 

"  Oh !  .  .  .  I  thought  I'd  just  come  and  see  how  you 
were  and  if  you  wanted  anything  from  me." 

Emmie  pushed  the  hairpins  more  securely  in  her  hair. 

"  Well,"  she  said  a  little  hesitatingly,  "  we'd  better 
have  a  talk  on  business." 

"  Yes." 

"  T.  Booke  &  Son  belongs  to  me."  She  felt  stirred  a 
little  as  she  said  it,  and  a  faint  blush  stole  into  her  cheek. 
It  was  almost  like  a  boast  and  Emmie  did  not  mean  to 
speak  in  that  light,  though  she  thoroughly  understood  the 
importance  of  the  remark. 

"  I  gathered  as  much.  ...  I  don't  understand  it  al- 
together: is  it  yours  absolutely?  Or  have  you  only  a 
sort  of  share,  a  life  interest  in  it?  Have  you  to  go 
whack  with  the  children?" 

"No."     She   spoke   quickly.     "It's   mine."     She   re- 


228  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

peated  Bowfield's  words  as  if  she  liked  them,  "  lock,  stock 
and  barrel,  bricks  and  mortar,  machinery,  engines  — 
everything." 

There  was  a  tremendous  satisfaction  on  her  face. 

"  H'm."  He  was  wondering  what  was  going  to 
happen. 

"Of  course,  naturally,  what's  mine  is  the  children's  — 
you  know  what  I  mean?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  it's  mine  to  do  as  I  like  with.  Tim  has  left 
everything  to  me,  and  I  can  shut  it  up  to-morrow  if  I 
want  — " 

"  But  you'll  not  do  that,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  No  fear." 

The  quick,  almost  supplication  from  Ernest  pleased 
her.  "  You'll  not  do  that  ?  "  .  .  .  There  was  clear  evi- 
dence of  power. 

She  shook  her  head.     "  Why  should  I?  " 

"  There  wouldn't  be  much  sense  in  that,"  he  said, 
quickly. 

"Of  course  not.  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  what  to 
do  yet  —  except  that  things  must  go  on.  I  was  wonder- 
ing. .  .  .  You  can  manage,  Ernest,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  Manage  the  place  properly,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Yes.  Of  course  I  have  in  a  sense  been  managing  it 
since  Mr.  Booke  left  it  —  in  a  sense  that  is.  Mr.  Tim 
decided  anything,  but  he  left  a  lot  to  me.  He  was  away 
a  good  deal  for  one  thing." 

"  Suppose,"  said  Emmie,  "  I  made  you  manager :  made 
you  responsible  —  could  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  be  very  glad  to,  both  for  Tim's  sake  and 
yours." 

"  H'm.  ...  Of  course,  I  don't  want  to  decide  in  a 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  229 

hurry.  We  must  have  a  talk,  but  at  any  rate  you  go  on 
acting  as  if  you  were  manager.  I  make  you  manager 
let's  say  for  a  month  at  —  what  do  you  get,  Ernest  ?  " 

"  Three  pound,  ten." 

"  Three  pound,  ten.  .  .  .  Might  make  it  five  pounds  — 
that'll  do  for  this  month  at  any  rate." 

"Thanks.     Yes.  .  .  .  Er— " 

"  Just  go  on  managing  it  to  the  best  of  your  ability. 
Do  your  very  best.  At  the  end  of  the  month  we  might 
come  to  better  terms  —  we'll  see:  say  perhaps  a  bit  of 
commission  on  the  profits,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  would  be  fair." 

"  I'll  be  fair  with  you.  But  I  want  you  to  let  me 
know  what  the  profits  have  been  for  the  last  seven  or 
eight  years  —  you  could  let  me  have  that,  couldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Ernest  was  by  now  almost  in  the  attitude  of  one  who 
waited  for  orders,  who  recognised  a  superior.  He  had 
come  in  with  the  full  determination  to  help  Emmie  to  the 
best  of  his  ability :  he  felt  sorry  for  her.  He  saw  her  as 
a  young  widow  with  two  young  children  to  bring  up  and 
a  big  business  on  her  hands.  He  was  prepared  to  do  his 
utmost  for  her  for  sentimental  reasons  quite  apart  from 
those  of  personal  advantage,  though  he  naturally  quite 
realised  that  the  position  of  authoritative  manager  with 
full  responsibility  and  power  was  a  better  post  than  the 
one  he  had  occupied  hitherto. 

And  when  he  had  come  in  he  had  come  prepared  to  talk 
sympathetically  to  Emmie,  to  tell  her  not  to  worry  about 
anything,  and  he  had  expected  to  find  her  in  a  dejected 
and  appealing  frame  of  mind.  He  was  a  little  anxious 
about  his  position  but  his  uppermost  feelings  were  those 
of  guide,  counsellor  and  friend.  He  was  astonished  at 
Emmie's  attitude.  She  was  so  clear-headed.  There 


230  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

was  no  nonsense  about  her.  She  knew  what  she  wanted 
to  know  and  wasted  no  sighs  or  phrases  in  silly  remarks 
or,  as  he  called  it  to  himself  afterwards,  flapdoodle.  He 
sat  like  a  servant,  and  she  spoke  like  the  mistress. 

"  There's  another  thing,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Yes."     He  spoke  as  one  receiving  orders. 

"  I'll  walk  round  with  you  one  of  these  days :  but  not 
yet.  Only,  in  the  meanwhile,  let  me  know  what  you're 
doing,  when  you  buy  anything,  for  instance." 

"What  er— " 

"  Wool,  fur,  silk,  band  and  binding.  ...  I  might  just 
as  well  try  to  understand  the  business.  Just  bring  me  in 
bits  of  samples  and  you  can  tell  me  if  it's  cheap  or  what." 

He  nodded.     "  Yes,  I  understand,"  he  said. 

"  You  can  let  them  know  how  things  stand." 

"  I  must  have  some  authority,"  he  said.  "  They're  all 
working  well,  but  there's  always  one  or  two  ready  to  take 
liberties." 

"  Oh !  Sack  any  of  that  sort.  Don't  have  any  non- 
sense, Ernest.  Are  you  busy  now  ?  " 

"  Fair.  Got  a  big  order  in  this  morning  from  Ogden 
&  Fry." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"  A  big  firm  in  London :  they're  wholesale  people  and 
can  give  us  an  order  for  five  hundred  dozen  now  and 
again." 

"  That's  big.     What's  this  for?  " 

"  About  a  hundred  and  twenty  dozen  altogether." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Well,  just  pop  in  before  you  go  to-night." 

"  Right.  I  suppose  we'd  better  get  out  a  circular  to 
send  to  customers  and  those  in  the  trade,  that  Mr. 
Tim's  dead  and  that  the  business  will  be  carried  on  by  his 
widow  and  er  .  .  .  I  suppose  I'd  better  say  Mr.  Ernest 
Mullins  has  been  appointed  manager,  eh?  And  there's 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  231 

the  signing  of  cheques.  .  .  .  Shall  I  sign?  I  shall  want 
your  authority." 

"  Oh !  .  .  ."  Emmie  considered.  There  were  evi- 
dently lots  of  things  she  had  not  thought  of.  "  Could  I 
sign  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  could.  It  wouldn't  always  be  convenient.  Sup- 
pose you  were  away  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  have  to  go  away,"  she  said  quickly.  She 
had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  going  away  much  and  so  that 
was  no  drawback  or  difficulty. 

"  In  any  case  it  would  mean  fetching  you  to  the  office," 
said  Ernest. 

"  Well.  ...  If  I  didn't  sign  I  suppose  you  would?  " 

"  Yes.     Nobody  else  of  course." 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  Suppose  we  both  did  it  —  could  that  be 
arranged  ?  " 

"  Ye-es." 

"  Well,  when  you  come  in  to-night,  bring  in  a  copy  of 
the  circular  and  I'll  read  it  over." 

"  Right !  By  Gum !  Mrs.  Tim,  but  you've  got  a  head 
on  your  shoulders !  " 

"  I  should  look  funny  if  I  hadn't,"  she  said  quickly. 

But  when  Ernest  went  back  into  the  works  he  carried 
with  him  a  picture  that  was  like  nothing  of  Emmie  he 
had  seen  before,  except  the  frame.  "  Talking  like  that, 
as  clear-headed  as  you  please.  .  .  .  And  she,  knocked 
over  with  the  death  of  her  husband.  .  .  .  Only  about 
twenty-five  or  twenty-six  —  something  like  that.  .  .  . 
And  a  bonny  looking  woman  too,  fine  figure.  .  .  .  Im- 
agine her  signing  cheques." 

Clearly  Ernest  was  very  much  impressed. 

Emmie,  too,  was  impressed,  but  differently.  She  was 
impressed  by  circumstances. 


232  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

These  works  were  hers  —  that  was  the  idea  she  was 
driving  home.  They  were  her  property  just  as  much  as 
the  furniture  in  the  house  was  hers,  as  that  chair  on 
which  she  sat.  She  knew,  of  course,  what  to  do  with  the 
chair,  but  it  was  not  so  easy  to  say  what  must  be  done 
with  a  hat  factory.  She  tingled  with  the  realisation  of 
what  her  possessions  actually  were.  A  hat  factory,  with 
boilers  and  dye-kettles,  and  machinery;  plankers  and  fur 
blowers  and  wool  formers  and  body  makers  and  finishers 
and  trimmers  and  .  .  . 

She  wept.  She  thought  of  Tim  again.  The  extent  of 
her  heritage  thrust  her  mind  to  the  cause  of  it.  Tim, 
lying  in  the  ground.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Wright  appeared  at  the  doorway. 

"  'Ad  I  better  do  th'  potatoes?"  she  asked. 

Emmie  wiped  her  eyes  and  stood. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  The  pudding  ought  to  be  in  too.  Is  the 
oven  hot?" 

"  Fair." 

Emmie  went  briskly  to  the  kitchen. 

"  The  potatoes,"  she  said,  and  turned  to  go  down  the 
cellar. 

"Eh!  I'll  fetch  'em,  Mrs.  Tim,"  said  Mrs.  Wright, 
making  a  heavy  movement  forward  and  speaking  with 
more  compunction  than  desire. 

Emmie  skipped  down  the  cellar  steps. 

"Just  stir  that  fire!"  she  called  out,  "and  pull  the 
damper." 

She  came  up  smartly  with  some  potatoes  in  a  basket 
and  a  big  jug  of  milk. 

"  I'd  ha'  fetched  'em,  Mrs.  Tim,"  said  Mrs.  Wright. 
"  You  shouldn't  .  .  ." 

"  In  five  minutes,"  thought  Emmie.     She  merely  said : 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  233 

"There  are  the  potatoes  —  I  should  think  half  a  dozen 
of  those  would  be  ample." 

She  turned  to  the  fire,  raked  it  and  pushed  some  under 
the  oven,  the  door  of  which  she  felt  with  the  back  of  her 
hand. 

"  It's  all  right,"  she  said. 

While  Mrs.  Wright  was  slowly  making  up  her  mind 
that  she  had  to  peel  potatoes  and  that  to  peel  potatoes  she 
must  have  a  knife  and  then  she  must  take  a  potato  in  one 
hand  and  a  knife  in  the  other,  Emmie  put  milk,  rice,  sugar, 
a  pinch  of  salt  and  some  nutmeg  in  a  dish,  placed  the  dish 
in  the  oven,  went  into  the  cellar  again  for  the  meat  and 
the  two  women  found  themselves  going  to  the  knife  box 
at  the  same  time. 

Emmie  worked  well,  and,  as  long  as  her  mind  was  oc- 
cupied with  some  task  or  other,  she  did  not  mourn.  But 
she  found  so  often  that  little  "  something  "  to  recall  Tim. 
She  might  be  dusting  and  lift  a  tobacco  jar,  tidying  up- 
stairs and  see  a  shaving  brush  or  a  razor,  and  everything 
was  forgotten  but  the  dead  man  and  what  he  had  meant 
to  her.  At  such  moments  she  was  too  moved  to  do  more 
than  dwell  on  the  picture  and  grieve. 

She  was  also  stirred  by  the  many  kind  messages  that 
came.  The  secretary  of  the  Gentleman's  Club  wrote  to 
express  the  sympathy  and  condolence  of  the  members ;  the 
secretary  of  a  cricket  club  did  the  same,  also  the  secretary 
of  the  political  club,  also  many  individuals.  Emmie  re- 
ceived over  a  score  of  letters  from  people  she  did  not 
know  at  all  intimately.  They  all  testified  to  the  respect 
and  esteem,  and,  in  many  cases,  affection  in  which  Tim 
had  been  held. 

While  Emmie  was  of  course  very  pleased  to  receive 
these  letters,  she  was  disturbed  in  spirit  because  of  them. 


234  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

They  all  reminded  her  of  her  loss  and  made  her  weep 
fresh  tears. 

But  surely  she  began  to  take  stock  of  her  legacy. 
Those  works  .  .  .  that  was  the  item  that  fired  her  imag- 
ination and  made  her  realise  she  would  have  need  of  all 
her  resolution  and  decision  in  dealing  with  it.  A  factory 
where  hundreds  of  men  and  women  earned  their  liv- 
ing. .  .  . 

As  Emmie  rested  for  a  moment  from  her  housework, 
she  began  to  see  T.  Booke  &  Son  as  something  extraordi- 
narily fascinating.  She  was  merely  dazed  with  the  pos- 
session at  first.  The  factory  —  hers.  .  .  . 

Afterwards  her  keen,  practical  mind  faced  the  situation. 
She  did  not  know  she  had  a  particularly  keen  or  especially 
practical  mind,  though  she  knew  she  was  capable  of  deal- 
ing competently  with  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life.  She 
knew  very  well,  for  instance,  that  she  could  not  manage 
a  hat  factory,  but  she  was  beginning  to  realise  that  it 
might  be  within  her  ability  to  find  a  man  to  manage  the 
business  and  for  her  to  manage  him! 

Also,  for  that  matter,  she  could  let  Mr.  Booke  manage 
the  works  again  .  .  .  perhaps  he  would.  He  seemed  to 
hint  at  it,  or  one  of  them  had.  The  works  had  to  be  kept 
going  because  of  the  money  they  brought  in,  and  because 
of  little  Tim,  who  must  one  day  inherit  and  carry  them 
on,  so  some  one  must  manage  them  .  .  .  whoever  it 
was  .  .  . 

But  Emmie  felt  "  T.  Booke  &  Son  "  a  tough  prop- 
osition, something  that  might  worry  her  considerably. 
As  she  went  about  her  duties  in  the  house,  cooked  the 
dinner,  dusted,  saw  to  the  children,  dealt  with  the  heavy 
correspondence  that  poured  in  on  her  at  this  time,  etc., 
etc.,  she  kept  seeing  "  T.  Booke  &  Son  "  as  a  problem 
to  be  solved. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  235 

Mr.  Booke  called.  He  was  in  black  and  looked  like  a 
man  who  had  been  hard  hit:  but  he  had  fortitude  and 
could  bear  the  ills  of  life  with  little  or  no  public  grieving. 

Emmie  no  sooner  saw  him  than  she  thought  of  Tim. 
The  father  suggested  the  son  in  so  many  ways.  He  came 
into  the  kitchen  as  Emmie  was  laying  the  cloth  for  dinner. 
Little  Tim  had  not  come  back  from  school,  but  Alice  was 
at  home  and  ran  eagerly  to  her  grandpa,  who  sat  down 
and  took  her  on  his  knee  and  let  her  play  with  his  watch. 

"  She's  growin',  Emmie,"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Coin'  to  be  like  you,  too." 

"Is  she?" 

"  Yes.     Has  Bowfield  been  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh.  ...  I  suppose  you  know  now  exactly  how  things 
are." 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  It's  the  works,  of  course,  that  are  the  try- 
ing thing." 

"  H'm.  Still,  we  must  get  over  that.  I'll  see  they're 
not  played  ducks  and  drakes  with  —  if  you  want  — "  He 
paused. 

Emmie  said  quietly  after  the  pause,  "  I've  been  talking 
to  Ernest." 

"  Oh !  .  .  .  He's  all  right,  you  know.  I  should  think 
he'd  do  with  somebody  behind  him:  he  shouldn't  think 
he'd  got  a  soft  job  on.  ...  But  I  always  reckoned  him 
capable  and  he  did  very  well  for  Tim." 

"  That's  what  I  was  thinking,"  said  Emmie.  "  I'm 
going  to  have  a  talk  with  him  to-night.  I've  told  him  to 
get  some  figures  for  me,  and  he's  drawing  up  a  circular  to 
send  to  customers  and  others." 

Mr.  Booke  nodded  and  looked  at  Emmie  keenly.  He 
had  always  known  she  was  no  fool,  but  she  did  not  assume 


236  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

the  attitude  of  the  broken  woman  now,  helpless  and  yearn- 
ing for  support:  she  talked  like  a  sensible  being  taking 
sensible  stock  of  affairs. 

"  Baby  got  'nother  puff-puff,"  said  Alice  to  her 
grandpa. 

"  Oh !     An'  who  gave  Baby  another  puff-puff  ?  " 

"  Auntie  Sophy.  .  .  .  Booful  puff-puff."  Alice  climbed 
down  from  her  grandfather's  knees  to  fetch  the  booful 
puff-puff. 

"  Of  course  you'll  do  as  you  like,  Emmie,"  said  Mr. 
Booke.  "  The  works  are  yours.  T.  Booke  &  Son  be- 
longs to  you."  He  paused  a  moment,  as  if  the  reflection 
was  of  more  than  passing  interest  and  importance.  "  But 
we  shouldn't  like  to  see  the  place  go  down  —  any  of  us. 
I  thought  I'd  done  with  business,  but  if  you  like  I'll 
shoulder  the  harness  again." 

"  Now  don't  you  worry  for  the  moment,  Grandpa.  I 
don't  know  what's  best  at  present,  but  you've  earned  your 
rest." 

"  Nay,  I'm  not  that  old.  At  least  I  should  hope  not. 
I've  plenty  o'  work  in  me  yet,  and  if  it's  for  T.  Booke  & 
Son  I'm  ready  to  go  till  I  drop." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  ...  of  course  it's  very  kind  of  you. 
Let's  wait  a  bit.  Perhaps  Ernest  can  manage,  and  you 
can  help  me  to  keep  an  eye  on  him." 

"  They're  yours,  as  I  said,"  he  replied.  "  T.  Booke  & 
Son  belongs  to  you.  I  don't  want  to  push  myself  — " 

"Pushing  yourself  —  you're  not  pushing  yourself," 
said  Emmie.  "  You  know  I'm  very  grateful,  Grandpa, 
but  I  don't  want  to  drag  you  back  to  work  now  for  me. 
I'm  not  that  helpless." 

"No  ...  you're  not  that  helpless."  He  said  it  very 
quietly,  and  obviously  was  paying  her  a  compliment, 
though  as  he  was  not  used  to  the  giving  of  praise  he  did 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  237 

it  rather  oddly.  "  Of  course,"  he  added,  "  I  can't  help 
taking  an  interest  in  ...  T.  Booke  &  Son." 

"  Well,  of  course  not.  But  what  do  you  think, 
Grandpa ;  could  I  manage  with  Ernest  as  manager  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You  might.  .  .  .  He  might  do  very  well  for  you." 

Emmie  watched  him  closely.  "  He  isn't  satisfied,"  she 
said  to  herself,  but  she  was  now  beginning  to  experience 
a  desire  that  seemed  to  be  growing  fast  —  to  have  and 
keep  these  works  under  her  control.  She  was  attracted 
by  the  sense  of  something  exhilarating  and  most  fascinat- 
ing. A  jewel  rich  and  rare  and  of  great  price  would  have 
had  no  attraction  for  her  comparable  to  this.  T.  Booke 
&  Son  .  .  .  her's  —  that  was  the  refrain. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  and  I  can  always  come  to  you  for 
advice." 

He  nodded. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  T.  Booke  &  Son  to  go  down,"  he 
said  quietly. 

He  got  up.     Alice  came  in  with  the  new  toy. 

"  Booful  puff-puff,  Gran'pa.  See."  She  put  it  on  the 
ground  and  dragged  it.  "  Puff  .  .  .  puff  .  .  ." 

Emmie  watched  her  and  bit  her  lip;  the  child  seemed 
oblivious  of  all  the  big  things  that  were  going  on  and  being 
decided  around  her. 

"  Fine  puff-puff,"  said  Mr.  Booke,  who  was  not  capa- 
ble of  sinking  to  a  child's  level  with  zest.  "  Well,  I'll  be 
off." 

"Would  you  like  to  stay  and  have  some  dinner?" 
Emmie  said.  "  It's  not  much  —  a  stew,  but  it's  all 
right." 

"  No,  no.     I've  got  mine  waiting.     Mornin'." 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Emmie.     "  Come  in  often." 

He  nodded  slightly,  bent  down  and  kissed  Alice. 


238  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

T.  Booke  &  Son.  .  .  .  They  did  think  something  of  it. 
Emmie  sat  in  a  chair  when  Mr.  Booke  had  gone  and  dwelt 
on  the  situation.  Grandpa  was  very  good  to  offer  to  look 
after  the  works.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  might  be  best.  If  the 
business  went  down  the  Bookes  would  never  forgive  her. 
But  Ernest  Mullins  could  manage.  .  .  .  They'd  have  to 
put  somebody  in  to  manage  .  .  .  except,  of  course,  Mr. 
Booke  went  back  himself.  And  he'd  do  that  before  he'd 
see  those  works  come  short  of  a  certain  standard. 

What  should  she  do?  Emmie  sat  and  pondered  and 
was  a  little  troubled.  The  responsibility  was  great:  so 
also  was  the  attraction.  To  be  the  head  of  a  hat  works 
...  it  was  almost  dizzying.  Suppose  she  were  taken 
advantage  of  —  tricked  —  and  the  business  ruined.  She 
trembled  at  the  thought  of  that. 

Then  little  Tim  came  dashing  in  from  school. 

"  I  was  second  in  class  in  sums  to-day,  Mammy,  and 
I  should  have  been  first  only  Arthur  Fore  spoke  before  I 
did,  and  Miss  Ada  said  I  did  very  well." 

Emmie  kissed  him.  "  Splendid !  You'll  be  first  soon. 
Now  take  your  hat  off;  we'll  have  dinner  in  a  min- 
ute." 

Tim  sniffed.  "  What  is  it  ?  Stew  ...  I  like  stew. 
And,  Mammy,  can  I  have  a  new  satchel,  because  my 
other's  all  torn?  And  we're  going  to  do  singing  this 
afternoon.  I  like  singing;  do  you  like  singing, 
Mammy?" 

Alice  came  along. 

"  Puff,  puff,  puff,  puff.  Mammy,  when  I  doe  to  stool 
tan  I  take  my  puff-puff  with  me  ?  " 

"  We'll  see,  darling.     We'll  have  dinner  now." 

Emmie  washed  herself  and  put  on  her  crepe  dress,  in 
the  afternoon.  She  looked  at  herself  as  she  washed. 
Well,  nobody  could  say  she  hadn't  a  good  figure.  .  .  . 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  239 

That  face  was  all  right  too,  and  a  widow  ...  a  widow  at 
her  age! 

She  had  to  bite  her  lip  and  swallow,  and  then  failed  to 
keep  back  the  tear.  It  was  hard.  She  was  young  yet, 
with  life  before  her. 

Emmie  was  finely  healthy  and  full  of  vitality,  and  the 
solitariness  suggested  by  this  big  bedroom  chilled  her. 

But  she  might  have  been  left  badly  off  —  that  would 
have  made  things  hard.  As  it  was  —  and  then  she  was 
back  at  that  haunting  idea  symbolised  as  it  were  by  a  big 
factory  chimney  with  a  lightning  conductor  running 
alongside  it :  T.  Booke  and  Son.  .  .  . 

The  heavy  black  of  the  dress  displeased  her.  She  liked 
her  thick  black  hair  and  dark  eyebrows,  but  she  felt  very 
black  in  this  crepe.  A  jabot  of  white  lace  would  relieve 
it  —  what  was  she  thinking  of?  She  was  in  black  for 
Tim.  .  .  .  Poor  Tim!  She  saw  him  walking  about  the 
room,  turning  round  and  saying,  "  Oh,  Emmie,"  or  com- 
ing to  her  when  she  was  half  dressed  and  teasing  her. 

Now  he  was  dead.  Dead  ...  it  was  almost  incom- 
prehensible. 

She  wiped  her  eyes,  finished  dressing,  looked  round  the 
room,  and  then  went  downstairs.  It  was  about  tea-time. 
Alice  was  in  the  kitchen  playing  with  her  toys.  Mrs. 
Wright  was  in  the  cellar  mangling  clothes  and  Ada  was 
busy  in  the  kitchen  putting  other  clothes  before  the  fire 
and  keeping  an  eye  on  the  little  girl.  The  kettle  was  on 
the  hob  singing  quietly. 

Emmie  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw  the  roofs  of 
some  of  the  "  shops  "  belonging  to  the  factory  —  there 
was  the  dye  shop  straight  in  front  of  her,  and  to  the  right 
the  planking  shop. 

She  shook  her  head :  she  would  have  to  come  to  a  de- 
cision. The  life  in  those  works  must  be  controlled  by 


240  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

somebody.  Would  it  be  better  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it  but  just  to  draw  an  income  from  it,  or  to  go  in  and 
about  it,  feel  its  pulse,  see  what  was  going  on,  manage 
it  —  rule  it?  She  sighed.  The  decision  was  no  easy 
thing. 

As  she  turned  and  looked  round  the  kitchen,  which  was 
now  very  clean  and  tidy,  she  felt  that  great  content  that 
the  middle-class  woman  feels  at  tea-time.  It  was  prob- 
ably the  happiest  hour  of  the  day.  As  she  stood  for  a 
moment  letting  her  thoughts  drift  from  hat-making  to 
tea-making  Emmie  wondered  why  this  tea-time  should  be 
so  pleasant  comparatively  and  so  regularly  pleasant.  .  .  . 
Emmie  now  felt  a  more  glowing  satisfaction  than  at  any 
hour  of  the  day  previously.  The  kettle  on  the  hob  was  a 
symbol  and  sign  of  something  peculiarly  soothing;  why 
the  kettle  more  than  a  pan  of  potatoes?  A  pan  of  po- 
tatoes !  It  never  gave  Emmie  a  thrill,  or  few  women  for 
that  matter,  but. a  kettle  singing  on  the  hob  at  tea-time 
was  music. 

As  Emmie  walked  to  the  fireplace,  glanced  at  the  clock 
on  the  mantel  shelf  and  pulled  the  kettle  a  little  further 
from  the  fire  so  that  it  should  not  boil  too  soon,  she  saw 
the  average  woman  of  her  class  —  present  class  at  any 
rate  —  washed  and  dressed,  the  back  of  the  day's  work 
broken  at  tea-time.  No  wonder  the  singing  kettle  was  a 
joy  to  hear,  quite  apart  from  the  liking  for  tea  as  a 
beverage.  With  men  it  was  different;  they  worked  just 
as  hard  after  tea  as  before :  they  did  not  get  through  their 
hard  work  first  and  find  about  tea-time  they  could  wash 
and  put  on  other  clothes  which  supplied  in  themselves  an 
emotion  of  satisfaction  and  contemplate  a  smoother  time 
for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Emmie  turned  round,  her  thoughts  moving  quickly 
from  reflection  to  action. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  241 

"  You'd  better  wash  that  lettuce  and  cress,  Ada,"  she 
said. 

"  Yes'm." 

"  Wash  it  carefully  now ;  don't  just  put  it  under  the 
tap  —  that  won't  do." 

"  No'm." 

Emmie  meanwhile  went  to  the  dresser,  took  out  a  table- 
cloth which  she  spread  on  the  kitchen  table. 

"  When  you've  washed  that,  put  the  tea  things  on," 
she  said  to  Ada,  and  she  ran  down  the  cellar  steps  for  the 
bread  and  butter.  "  We'll  have  tea  in  about  five  minutes, 
Mrs.  Wright." 

"  I  can  do  with  my  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Wright. 

"  Have  you  nearly  finished  ?  " 

"  I'm  gettin'  on." 

"  That's  right." 

Emmie  came  up  with  the  bread  and  butter  and  at  once 
began  to  cut  and  butter  slices. 

They  all  sat  down  to  tea  together  in  the  kitchen,  Emmie, 
the  two  children,  Mrs.  Wright  the  charwoman,  and  Ada. 
Emmie  had  no  pride  of  caste  if  it  interfered  with  com- 
fort. She  and  Tim  had  taken  most  of  their  meals  in  the 
kitchen,  although  Mr.  Booke  and  Tim  had  lived  in  the 
dining-room  because  the  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Bane,  and 
Ada  occupied  the  kitchen.  But  living  in  the  dining-room 
now  meant  using  another  room,  and  the  kitchen  was  so 
convenient.  And  what  did  it  matter  if  Ada  sat  down  to 
meals  with  them?  It  did  none  of  them  any  harm.  The 
food  wasn't  worse  and  Ada  was  a  bit  of  company.  .  .  . 
As  for  Mrs.  Wright,  well,  why  not?  It  didn't  happen 
always,  and  Mrs.  Wright  only  came  twice  a  week,  on 
Mondays  and  Fridays  —  on  Mondays  for  washing  prin- 
cipally, and  on  Fridays  for  cleaning.  Of  course,  if  there 
was  anybody  else  there  Emmie  went  to  the  dining-room. 


242  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

It  was  when  you  had  to  clean  things  that  you  took  care 
not  to  be  so  quick  to  dirty  them. 

The  tea  consisted  of  bread  and  butter  with  lettuce  and 
cress,  some  jam,  and  a  boiled  egg  for  Mrs.  Wright,  whose 
labours  were  reckoned  to  demand  the  extra  sustenance. 

After  tea  Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  called,  and  they 
were  shown  into  the  dining-room,  for  Mrs.  Wright  was 
now  using  the  table  in  the  kitchen  for  her  ironing. 

The  children  were  with  Emmie  at  first,  but  were  fetched 
by  Ada  to  be  bathed  and  put  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  began  sympathetically. 
How  was  Emmie  —  keeping  up  well?  She  must,  of 
course,  for  the  children's  sake.  She  must  devote  herself 
wholly  to  the  children.  She  had  plenty  of  friends  to  help 
and  guide  her. 

She  received  a  few  compliments :  she  had  behaved  very 
well  and  very  sensibly. 

"  And,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  Tim  certainly  behaved 
very  handsomely  towards  you,  Emmie." 

"  I  was  his  wife,"  said  Emmie,  simply. 

"  I  am  not  saying  a  word  against  him  or  you,"  replied 
Mrs.  Holten  quickly.  "  I  think  it  was  very,  very  good  of 
him,  and,  I  will  say  this,  I  think  you  made  him  a  good 
wife." 

"  Still,  there's  the  children,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

"Of  course,  Emmie  understands,"  said  Mrs.  Holten, 
"  don't  you  —  that  though  Tim  left  everything  to  you, 
yet  really  it  is  all  in  the  nature  of  a  trust  for  the  chil- 
dren?" 

"  I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Booke,  so 
quickly  that  she  managed  to  give  Emmie  a  blow. 

Emmie  had  aged  considerably  from  an  intellectual  and 
resolute  point  of  view  since  her  marriage,  and  particu- 
larly since  Tim's  death.  It  was  as  if  the  moment  she  felt 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  243 

herself  alone  she  was  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself 
and  assume,  almost  instantly,  the  masculine  virtue  of  de- 
cision. The  qualities  were  doubtless  dormant  in  her  and 
found  scope  in  opportunity  and  necessity. 

"  I  think  I  can  be  trusted  to  look  after  my  own  chil- 
dren," she  said. 

Miss  Booke  shut  her  mouth,  and  her  face  showed  an 
expression  that  did  not  give  an  absolute  and  complete 
approval  of  Emmie's  speech. 

"Of  course,  there  are  the  works,"  said  Mrs.  Holten 
significantly. 

"  T.  Booke  &  Son,"  said  Miss  Booke,  mouthing  it  mag- 
nificently. "  We  Bookes  think  something  of  that." 

Emmie  was  not  at  all  cowed.  The  days  when  these 
two  ladies  could  fill  her  with  awe  were  past. 

"  You  can  see,  Emmie,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  with  a  softer 
intonation  than  Miss  Booke's,  "  that  we  feel  very  anxious 
about  the  works;  we  are  very  anxious  about  them." 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie. 

"You  understand,  don't  you?"  pressed  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  can  be  more  anxious  about 
them  than  I  am,  since  they  will  supply  my  income." 

"  That  shows  you  don't  understand,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

"  Ours  is  a  feeling  of  —  er  —  sentiment,  pride,  hon- 
our, if  you  like." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  stop  you  having  a  feeling  of  pride 
and  honour  in  the  works  if  you  like,  so  far  as  I  can  see," 
said  Emmie. 

They  could  all  tell  that  the  situation  had  reached  a 
stratum  where  feelings  were  getting  more  taut,  and  emo- 
tion, unless  well  and  carefully  handled,  might  break  loose. 

Both  Booke  ladies  seemed  to  bridle  a  little.  Miss 
Booke,  ever  the  most  undisciplined  and  aggressive  of  the 
family,  moved  with  patent  uneasiness. 


244  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Mrs.  Holten  cleared  her  throat.  Emmie  had  spoken 
quietly,  but  there  was  sufficient  tone  in  it  to  disturb  the 
two  ladies,  who  considered  themselves  "  superior " — 
taking  the  word  in  its  amplest  social  sense  —  to  one  who 
had  chanced  to  marry  into  the  family  but  had,  at  one 
time,  been  one  of  the  family's  employes  in  the  factory. 

Emmie  somehow  felt  strong  and  not  uncomfortable. 

"  What's  your  objection  to  letting  Grandpa  look  after 
the  works?"  Miss  Booke  asked. 

Emmie  understood.  The  two  ladies  had  evidently 
been  talking  to  grandpa  about  the  works.  He  was  not 
so  pushful. 

"  I  think  Grandpa  has  earned  his  rest,"  said  Emmie. 

"  He's  willing  to  look  after  them,"  said  Miss  Booke, 
not  at  all  suavely,  but  with  a  ring  of  arrogance  in  the 
tone. 

"  It's  very  good  of  him,"  said  Emmie. 

The  two  ladies  began  to  move  on  their  seats.  Fancy 
being  talked  to  like  this  by  a  young  creature  like  Emmie. 
.  .  .  Emmie  Bollins  —  that  was  their  disturbing  thought. 

Miss  Booke  wanted  to  dash  in  furiously,  but  Mrs.  Hol- 
ten, thoroughly  understanding  her  sister's  tactics  and  tact- 
lessness, leaned  forward  slightly. 

"  Yes,  but,  Emmie,  if  he's  good  enough  to  do  it  for 
the  sake  of  the  family,  for  the  sake  of  the  name  — 
Booke  — "  she  paused  a  moment  for  emphasis  — "  for 
your  little  boy  .  .  .  don't  you  think  you  ought  to  be 
very  grateful  and  accept  his  offer  so  that  we  can  all  feel 
comfortable?" 

"  I  see,"  said  Emmie.  "  Have  you  come  to  tell  me 
this?" 

"  And  very  good  of  us,  too,"  snapped  Miss  Booke. 

"  If  we  have,"  added  Mrs.  Holten,  "  I  think  you  ought 
to  be  thankful  we  take  such  an  interest  in  you." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  245 

"  You  mean  in  T.  Booke  &  Son,"  said  Emmie  calmly. 

"T.  Booke  &  Son"  ...  there  were  sniffs.  "It's 
your  income.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  T.  Booke  &  Son  you 
wouldn't  have  been  as  lucky  as  you  have  been."  Miss 
Booke  kept  turning  on  her  chair  as  she  rapped  out  her 
phrases. 

Emmie  was  slightly  flushed,  but  her  head  was  calm 
and  the  vision  clear. 

"  You  want  grandpa  to  manage  the  works,  is  that 
it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  Of  course  we  do,"  burst  out  Miss  Booke.  "  There's 
nothing  else  to  be  done.  It's  very  hard  on  Timothy,  very 
hard  on  him.  It's  noble  of  him  to  come  forward.  I 
can't  understand  how  there  can  be  any  hesitation  —  or 
anybody  else  with  proper  feeling,  either." 

Emmie  was  feeling  sterner.  She  saw  these  women 
had  come  with  a  sense  of  grievance,  and  had  meant  to 
put  her  in  her  place. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  don't  think,  Aunt  Maria, 
that  I  need  to  be  talked  to  quite  like  that." 

"  There'd  be  no  question  of  talking  to  you  quite  like 
that  if  you'd  do  the  proper  thing." 

"  When  you  say  the  proper  thing  you  mean  what  you 
want,"  replied  Emmie,  and  she  paused.  "  Well,  I  haven't 
quite  made  up  my  mind  ...  at  least,  I  hadn't  when  you 
came  in.  I  think  Ernest  Mullins  is  capable  of  managing 
the  business  and,  er — " 

"But  who's  going  to  look  after  him?"  asked  Mrs. 
Holten. 

"  Suppose  he  doesn't  make  them  pay?  " 

"  I  can  look  after  him,"  said  Emmie. 

"You!" 

"You!" 


246  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

The  voices  were  in  unison.  Both  ladies  were  now 
showing  their  emotion. 

"You?"  repeated  Miss  Booke.  "Don't  be  a—" 
She  stopped  herself  just  in  time. 

"  A  fool  ?  "  said  Emmie. 

"  I  didn't  say  it,  but  — "  Miss  Booke  nodded  with 
such  a  significant  expression  that  she  might  properly  be 
understood  to  stand  to  what  she  repressed. 

"  If  I  were  in  any  difficulty  or  doubt  I  could  always 
ask  grandpa,"  Emmie  ventured. 

"  If  I  were  in  his  place,  I'd  let  you  ask,"  said  Miss 
Booke. 

"  You're  not  capable  of  managing  those  works. 
You're  only  an  average  woman,  Emmie;  you're  not  ex- 
ceptional." 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  want  to  worry  him  too  much,  but 
perhaps  he  wouldn't  mind  .  .  .  for  the  sake  of  the  fam- 
ily, for  the  sake  of  the  name  .  .  .  for  Tim.  .  .  ." 

She  was  moved  as  she  said  the  last,  but  managed  to 
control  herself.  Average  woman  .  .  .  was  it  a  compli- 
ment or  not  ?  Emmie  was  not  offended  by  that. 

"  You're  very  obstinate,"  said  Mrs.  Holten  sharply. 

"  Worse  than  obstinate,"  added  Miss  Booke. 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "  You 
know  nothing  about  the  business." 

"  Except  trimming,"  added  Miss  Booke  savagely. 

Emmie's  eyes  blazed.  She  almost  burst  into  tears. 
She  seemed  to  be  —  between  anger  and  resentment  and 
humiliation  and  tears.  She  wanted  to  shout  bitter  words 
at  this  vinegar-tongued  woman,  and  she  wanted  to  weep 
in  sheer  self-pity.  But  through  the  battle  of  her  emo- 
tions something  steadied  and  calmed  and  restrained  her. 
It  was  as  if  her  intellect  directed  her.  She  had  with- 
stood tongues  dipped  in  gall  and  wormwood  before;  she 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  247 

had  more  than  once  been  reminded  of  her  position  as  a 
trimmer. 

As  the  emotion  beat  itself  to  pieces  while  her  hands 
shook  and  her  eyelids  trembled,  she  found  herself  gently 
assuming  the  upper  hand  of  gibes. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  looking  uncannily  at  Miss  Booke,  "  as 
you  say,  I  know  something  about  trimming." 

She  shut  her  mouth  tightly,  and  the  remark  seemed  to 
have  a  fine  defiance  in  it. 

Miss  Booke  said  to  herself,  "  Well ! "  in  a  huge  vol- 
ume, and  looked  staggered. 

Mrs.  Holten  was  amazed.  Emmie  seemed  so  solid. 
Was  this  mere  obstinacy,  or  what?  The  Bookes  could 
be  obstinate  and  hold  tight  and  shut  their  lips  —  sulk, 
even,  for  months  at  a  time.  But  this  was  something  of 
another  kind  altogether :  Emmie  seemed  to  keep  her  wits 
about  her,  and  to  talk  reasonably. 

A  level-headed  woman,  apart  from  her  natural  in- 
clination to  domineer,  Mrs.  Holten  saw  their  point  was 
not  so  easily  to  be  gained  as  they  had  imagined.  They 
had  taken  it  for  granted  that  their  brother  would  super- 
vise, in  some  way,  the  business  of  T.  Booke  &  Son,  and 
when  they  heard  from  him  that  it  was  not  at  all  a  settled 
thing,  that  Emmie  had  not  apparently  made  up  her  mind 
yet  what  to  do,  that  she  might  have  Ernest  Mullins  as 
manager  and  try  to  keep  an  eye  on  him  herself,  they 
flared  in  wrath  and  decided  they  would  at  once  let  Emmie 
know  what  they  thought  of  such  ideas,  and  would  quickly 
put  her  in  her  place.  Hence  the  conversation  and  the 
surprise. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Emmie  ?  "  Mrs.  Holten 
asked,  still  with  a  trace  of  asperity,  but  with  a  good  deal 
of  the  arrogance  gone. 

Emmie's  lips  were  shut  tight.     Try  to  master  her, 


248  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

would  they?  .  .  .  Remind  her  of  her  trimming  days,  eh? 

Her  face  was  hard.  But  she  still  was  able  to  keep  her 
pulse  on  the  thing  under  discussion. 

She  paused  deliberately :  let  these  people  see  they  could 
not  do  as  they  liked  with  her? 

"  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet,"  she  replied  quietly. 

Mrs.  Holten  was  beginning  to  see  that  their  tactics  had 
been  wrong,  but  they  were  both  of  the  rather  hectoring 
breed  and  could  not  cajole  after  summoning. 

Miss  Booke  still  looked  furious.  She  had  little  pa- 
tience with  differences  of  opinion  at  the  best  of  times, 
and  with  Emmie  —  Emmie  Bollins,  mind  —  she  thought 
it  easy  to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  opposition.  She  still 
wanted  to  say  the  bitter  and  galling  thing,  finding  it  gave 
her  more  satisfaction  to  ease  her  temper  than  to  gain  a 
victory. 

She  said,  shortly :  "  Nice  thing  to  see  T.  Booke  & 
Son  go  to  ruin." 

Emmie  had  to  hold  a  very  tight  rein  over  her  tongue. 

"  I  don't  see  why  it  should  go  to  ruin,"  she  said. 

"  Nobody  else,  either,"  snapped  Miss  Booke.  "  But  I 
can't  see  what  anybody  can  expect  but  that,  if  you're 
going  to  try  and  poke  your  ringer  in  it.  What  do  you 
know  about  managing  a  works?  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing  in  my  life.  A  young  woman  like  you.  It's  ridic- 
ulous, positively  ridiculous.  You!  It's — " 

Emmie  burst  into  tears.  She  had  stood  all  she  could 
in  quietness.  She  had  been  stirred  so  much  emotionally 
recently  that  the  tears  came,  perhaps,  a  little  sooner  than 
usual,  though  the  provocation  in  normal  circumstances 
would  have  been  great. 

Mrs.  Holten  said  "  Oh,"  and  looked  a  little  distressed. 
She  was  angry  with  Emmie,  but  would  not  have  spoken 
like  Maria  .  .  .  she  couldn't  do  that  just  now.  .  .  . 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  249 

Miss  Booke  sniffed.  She  could  not  bend  even  before 
tears. 

Emmie  caught  her  breath  hard  as  she  sobbed.  Her 
feelings  were  torn  and  she  was  shaken  with  her  emotion. 
Just  at  that  moment  Ada  came  in :  "  Mrs.  Wright's 
going,  'm',  an'  Mr.  Mullins  is  'ere." 

Emmie  sniffed  and  wiped  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Holten 
looked  uncomfortable.  Miss  Booke  could  apparently 
sit  stolidly  through  any  scene  \vhen  her  passion  was 
roused. 

"  All  right.     I'll  be  there  in  a  moment,"  said  Emmie. 

She  stood  up. 

Mrs.  Holten  said :  "  I  suppose  we'd  better  be  going. 
You  think  things  over,  Emmie;  we  only  want  you  to  do 
what  is  best,  you  know." 

Miss  Booke  said,  "  Naturally."  It  was  her  best  she 
could  do  in  the  way  of  softening  matters. 

They  stood  up  and  moved  towards  the  door.  They 
were  not  beautiful  women;  they  had  never  been  really 
pretty,  but  their  long  noses  and  big  jaws  showed  some 
character.  They  were  dressed  very  tastefully  in  black. 

Mrs.  Holten  kissed  Emmie. 

"  We're  only  advising  for  the  best,"  she  said. 

And  Miss  Booke,  as  she  pecked  Emmie's  cheek,  added : 
"  Don't  you  be  foolish,  now.  We're  older  than  you ; 
we've  had  a  lot  more  experience;  you  should  be  guided 
by  us." 

When  they  had  gone,  Emmie  stood  for  a  minute  or 
two  in  the  dining-room.  She  sighed  and  gasped  over  the 
hard  things  that  had  been  said  to  her. 

Yet  these  two  aunts  of  Tim's  were  perhaps  right. 
How  could  she  properly  overlook  a  hat  factory?  It  did 
seem  preposterous. 


250  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Yet  when,  later  in  the  evening,  she  read  the  draft  of 
the  circular  which  Ernest  had  left  with  her,  she  was 
fascinated  to  almost  complete  forgetfulness  of  Mrs.  Hoi- 
ten  and  Miss  Booke. 

"  I  regret  to  inform  you  of  the  death  of  Mr.  Timothy 
Booke,  sole  proprietor  of  the  business  carried  on  as  T. 
Booke  &  Son,  which  is  now  the  absolute  property  of  his 
widow.  There  will  be  no  hitch  in  the  carrying  on  of  the 
business,  and  a  continuance  of  your  favours  is  requested. 

"  Mr.  Ernest  Mullins,  who  has  been  associated  with 
the  firm  for  the  past  ten  years,  and  has  acted  as  manager 
for  the  last  five  years,  will  continue  to  direct  its  affairs 
under  the  immediate  supervision  of  the  proprietor.  .  .  ." 

Emmie  read  and  re-read  the  circular  ..."  under  the 
immediate  supervision  of  the  proprietor."  That  phrase 
thrilled  her.  She  was  almost  frightened  by  it. 

What  was  it  made  her  so  anxious  to  possess  these 
works  ?  Why  could  she  not  let  "  grandpa  "  look  after 
them?  She  found  it  difficult  to  be  clear  of  her  motives 
even  to  herself.  Was  it  power  that  she  wanted?  or  did 
she  really  like  taking  a  personal  interest  in  the  business? 
or  was  it  something  vaguer  .  .  .  she  wanted  to  hold  fast 
by  what  she  had  lest  she  should  have  it  taken  from  her? 
or  was  it  that  she  liked  to  do  as  she  would  with  her  own 
and  did  not  care  to  be  interfered  with? 

She  did  not  bother  much  with  motives.  She  was  say- 
ing to  herself  most  of  the  time:  Shall  I,  or  shall  I  not? 
Sometimes  she  thought  it  would  be  foolish  of  her  to  trust 
wholly  to  Ernest  ...  at  other  moments  she  thought  Tim 
had  trusted  him,  and  she,  Emmie,  felt  he  was  to  be 
trusted. 

Then  she  thought  of  Miss  Booke.  Aunt  Maria  was 
unbearable.  She,  Emmie,  would  not  give  way  to  her. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  251 

Before  she  went  to  bed  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
Ernest  Mullins  should  be  made  manager,  "  under  the 
immediate  supervision  of  the  proprietor." 

But  she  tossed  a  good  deal  before  going  to  sleep  that 
night. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  next  morning  Emmie  experienced  the  feeling  of 
loneliness  that  had  come  to  her  each  awakening 
since  Tim's  death.     As  she  turned  round  in  bed  she  felt 

V 

very  sad.     No  man  beside  her.  .  .  .  No  male  companion- 
ship, and  she  was  still  young  enough  to  desire  it.  ... 

When  she  was  once  up  and  dressed  she  felt  better. 
This  morning  she  thought  of  the  works.  She  must  look 
after  her  business  now.  She  at  once  began  to  comfort 
herself  with  the  thought  that  Ernest  would  manage  all 
right.  What  about  those  works  near  the  station  where 
there  was  a  manager  —  they  prospered  well  enough,  and 
there  was  no  father  and  son  looking  after  them.  .  .  . 
There  were  a  lot  of  \vomen  shareholders,  too,  for  that 
matter.  Ernest  would  manage  well  enough,  and  she 
would  keep  him  up  to  the  mark.  The  words  in  the  cir- 
cular recurred  to  her,  "  under  the  immediate  supervision 
of  the  proprietor.  .  .  ." 

She  went  to  the  children's  room  to  dress  Tim  and 
Alice. 

She  opened  the  door  quietly,  so  as  not  to  wake  them 
too  suddenly,  and  entered  with  a  glad  welcoming  smile 
on  her  face.  Emmie  certainly  loved  her  children.  She 
noticed  the  warm,  faint  odour,  and  went  at  once  to  the 
window  and  drew  up  the  blind. 

Tim  turned  over,  rubbed  his  eyes  and  sat  up. 

Emmie  took  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him.  Not 
thoroughly  awake,  he  laid  his  head  on  her  breast  and 
snuggled  to  her.  She  loved  to  feel  him  like  that  and 
pulled  him  out  of  bed. 

252 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  253 

"  Billy  Winkers  not  gone  yet?  "  She  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  and  nursed  him,  taking  a  delight  in  holding 
his  warm  little  body  and  looking  at  his  healthy  smooth 
skin. 

Tim  sat  up  on  her  knee.     He  was  awake  now. 

Emmie  pushed  her  hand  through  his  tousled  hair. 

"  You  must  have  your  hair  cut,  darling." 

"  Mammy." 

"  Well,  dear." 

"  When  Jack  the  Giant  Killer  cut  the  bridge,  you  know, 
how  deep  was  the  water  ?  " 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Deep  enough  to  drown  him  if  he  wasn't 
careful.  .  .  .  Now  you  get  dressed  quickly  or  perhaps 
the  Giant  will  come  and  take  your  clothes." 

"  He  can't." 

"Why  can't  he?" 

"  Well,  because  Jack  killed  him  — " 

"  Mammie  — "    It  was  Alice  shouting. 

Emmie  put  Tim  down.  "  Now  there  are  your  clothes, 
dear.  Hurry  up,  for  if  Jack  killed  one  giant,  perhaps 
there's  another  one." 

Tim  stood  in  a  very  thoughtful  attitude. 

"  Could  he  get  in  that  door,  Mammy?  " 

"  Mam-mie  .  .  ."  shouted  Alice,  kneeling  in  bed. 

"  Yes,  dear.  .  .  ."  Emmie  walked  to  Alice's  cot. 
"  Get  dressed,  Tim  darling,  quickly." 

"  But  could  he  get  in  that  door,  Mammy?  "  said  Tim, 
as  he  held  his  little  trousers  in  his  hands. 

"  Mammie,  Mammie,  Mammie,"  said  Alice,  as  she 
threw  her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck  and  was  lifted 
out  of  bed. 

"  I  think  he'd  crack  himself,"  said  Emmie. 

Tim  considered. 

"With  bending,  Mammy?" 


254  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Yes,  darling." 

Tim  thought  again. 

"  But  if  he  went  on  his  knees  —  couldn't  he  get  in 
then?" 

"  Ada  would  have  chopped  his  head  off  by  that  time. 
Now  get  on,  darling." 

"  Mammie,"  said  Alice,  "  what  would  Ada  chop  ?  " 

"  The  giant,  darling,  who  might  try  and  gobble  you  up 
if  you  don't  get  washed  and  dressed  quickly." 

"  I'll  be  washed  first,"  said  Tim,  as  he  hurried  into  his 
clothes. 

"  No,  me  first,"  cried  Alice. 

"  Me,  me,"  said  Tim,  hurrying. 

Alice  slipped  onto  the  ground  and  began  to  run  in  her 
nightdress  towards  the  bathroom. 

Emmie  caught  her  up  and  she  cried  and  had  to  be 
soothed,  and  Tim  dashed  away  in  the  turmoil;  but  with 
patience  and  tact  and  the  exercise  of  a  brief  authority 
Emmie  got  her  children  dressed  and  washed  and  ready 
for  breakfast. 

As  she  tidied  the  children's  room  before  going  down, 
Emmie  thought :  "  No  more  children.  .  .  ."  She  was 
not  sure  that  she  wanted  any  more,  but  the  mere  thought 
of  the  reason  depressed  her.  .  .  . 

She  opened  the  window,  folded  the  children's  night- 
dresses, threw  the  bedclothes  back  and  left  the  door  open. 

Ada  was  outside  cleaning  the  steps,  and  Emmie  at 
once  began  to  see  to  breakfast.  The  children  had  bread 
and  milk  with  syrup  and  bread  afterwards.  Ada  was 
given  a  rasher  of  bacon  and  Emmie  had  two  rashers  or 
sometimes  one  rasher  and  an  egg;  there  were  also  pieces 
of  bread  cooked  in  the  bacon  fat.  They  all  had  break- 
fast in  the  kitchen,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  meal  Emmie, 
looking  at  the  works,  thought :  "  To  think  I  own  this 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  255 

house  and  that  factory.  ...  I  have  an  income  of  thirty 
pounds  a  week  at  least  —  and  I'm  not  spending  more 
than  about  four,  with  holidays  and  everything  in.  .  .  ." 
And  then  Tim  interrupted  her  with :  "  Mammy." 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Do  giants  have  bread  and  milk  for  breakfast?  " 

"  Yes,  darling  .  .  .  when  they  are  little." 

Tim  gobbled  up  his  bread  and  milk  greedily,  as  if  his 
consuming  desire  at  that  moment  was  to  become  a  giant. 

"Mammy?" 

"  Yes,  darling  " —  this  to  Alice. 

"Do  fairies?" 

"  Yes,  darling  —  all  the  good  ones." 

"  Baby  going  to  be  a  fairy.  .  .  ." 

Ada,  with  staring  eyes  and  a  smile  on  her  face  said, 
"  Eee.  .  .  ."  This  struck  her  limited  imagination 
fiercely. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning,  when  Emmie  was  wear- 
ing a  cap  on  her  head  to  keep  her  hair  reasonably  free 
of  dust  and  a  big  apron  to  cover  her  clothes,  Ernest  Mul- 
lins  came  in.  Emmie  took  off  the  cap  but  kept  on  the 
apron. 

"  I  don't  know  if  there's  anything  you'd  like  to  see  me 
about,"  said  Ernest.  He  was  wearing  his  cashmere 
jacket  and  black  apron,  which  had  two  or  three  holes  in 
it  at  the  top  where  he  was  in  the  habit  of  leaning  against 
things. 

When  Ernest  came  in  Emmie  felt  a  glow  of  satisfac- 
tion creeping  over  her,  and  when  he  spoke  and  made  her 
thoroughly  realise  her  position  as  the  sole  proprietor  of 
T.  Booke  &  Son  she  felt  that  glow  growing  warmer  and 
keener.  There  was  something  in  her  that  responded 
intensely  to  this  sense  of  something  to  do  or  of  power. 


256  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

.  .  .  Emmie  did  not  probe  herself,  but  the  thoughts  came 
with  the  emotions.  She  felt  eager  to  busy  herself  with 
things  and  was  not  afraid  of  big  things.  Was  it  just  a 
fine  superlative  vitality  ?  Or  what  ?  .  .  . 

She  moved  on  her  chair  to  pull  her  frock  straight,  and 
gave  Ernest  the  impression  of  some  one  keen,  alert,  sen- 
sible, shrewd  and  penetrating.  Clearly  she  knew  very 
little  about  the  details  of  hat-making  or  the  business  of  a 
hat  factory,  but  she  was  a  willing  learner  and  able. 

"  Just  tell  me  what  you're  doing,"  she  said.  "  What 
are  you  going  to  do  to-day?  " 

Ernest  felt  a  little  amused;  it  was  not  so  much  a 
strange  as  an  unexpected  question.  He  was  a  manager 
and  supervised ;  the  question  would  have  been  quite  easily 
answered  by  a  person  in  the  office,  or  one  in  the  ware- 
house or  by  Miss  Frisby,  the  giver-out. 

But  he  understood;  she  was  trying  to  get  into  touch 
with  the  business  and  he  really  wanted  to  let  her  grasp 
the  details  thoroughly. 

"  Well,  to  begin  with,  there's  the  letters  — " 

"  Have  you  got  them  with  you  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly, 
her  natural  curiosity  being  also  excited  by  the  correspond- 
ence. 

"  I  brought  a  few,"  he  said,  putting  a  small  bundle  on 
the  table  and  opening  one. 

Emmie  became  exceedingly  interested.  Almost  all  of 
them  began,  "  Messrs.  T.  Booke  &  Son, 

Gentlemen," 

To  herself,  in  swift  proclamation,  Emmie  felt :  "  '  Messrs. 
T.  Booke  &  Son,  Gentlemen '—  that's  me !  " 

Ernest  read  them  and  explained  where  explanations 
were  desirable,  and  Emmie  handled  the  letters  and  read 
them  again  for  her  own  satisfaction.  They  wrere  of  va- 
rious kinds.  "  Enclosed  please  find  eheque  value  so  much 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  257 

in  payment  of  our  account  to  March  3ist  We  shall  be 
obliged  with  a  receipt  in  due  course." 

Emmie  was  concise. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  this  ?  " 

"  The  cheque  is  endorsed  — " 

"Who  does  that?" 

"  Walker  does  that,  as  a  rule."  Walker  was  the 
cashier.  "  Then  he  pays  it  in  the  bank.  He  sends  off 
the  receipt,  too." 

Emmie  read  an  order :  "  Please  place  in  hand  at  once 
and  deliver  at  your  earliest  convenience,  as  the  goods  are 
urgently  wanted: 

"8      doz.  Conistpns  Ang.    2%  brim  33/-. 

4l/2    '       May  fair  2J4             3i/~- 

12        "     Rosebery  "                         37/6. 

15        "     Parnell  30/9 " 

Emmie  looked  at  the  order. 

"  I  suppose  you  hurry  that  up,"  she  said. 

"  As  quick  as  we  can,  of  course,  but  most  of  'em  are 
urgently  wanted.  They  take  their  turns." 

Emmie  did  not  altogether  like  that.  "  Take  their 
turns.  .  .  ."  "  Urgently  wanted  "  sounded  with  pristine 
freshness  in  her  ears. 

Ernest  saw  her  doubt.  "  Of  course,  they  get  pushed 
on  as  fast  as  possible,  but  we  have  to  arrange  to  let  no- 
body be  disappointed,  if  possible.  They'll  write  again  if 
they  want  'em  badly." 

Another  letter  found  fault  with  something,  and  Emmie 
was  concerned.  She  did  not  like  it.  "  Not  at  all  equal 
to  sample.  .  .  ."  That  did  not  sound  nice. 

"What's  that?" 

"  I  must  inquire  into  it.  It  may  be  their  mistake  or 
ours.  Perhaps  Vigo  made  a  mistake." 

"  Mr.  Vigo  —  doesn't  he  travel?  " 


258  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  Yes.  He  may  have  put  down  the  wrong  figure.  At 
any  rate  I'll  see  it's  set  right." 

"  Yes.  They  shouldn't  make  mistakes.  What's  that 
Ang.  ?  8  doz.  Conistons  Ang.  ?  " 

"  Anglesea  curl." 

"Of  course,"  said  Emmie;  "I've  seen  that  often 
enough." 

There  were  more  cheques,  some  accounts,  more  orders. 

"  I  suppose  you  see  to  all  these,  Ernest  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  hand  them  out  to  those  who  have  to  deal 
with  them." 

"  I  see,  the  cheques  to  Mr.  Walker,  and  so  on.  ... 
I'd  like  just  to  have  a  walk  round  with  you  sometime." 

"To-day?" 

"Well,  er.  .  .  ."  Emmie  felt  just  a  trifle  diffident, 
and  yet  she  was  very  desirous  of  seeing  her  works.  Her 
father  was  a  workman  in  her  factory,  and  she  knew  many 
of  them  would  refer  to  her  as  Sam  Bollins'  daughter, 
and  perhaps  suggest  she  was  trying  to  "  show  off  "  or 
"  swagger."  .  .  .  But  her  quick,  decisive  mind  saved  her 
a  deal  of  worry.  "  Yes  .  .  .  I'll  come  after  dinner," 
she  said.  "  I  only  just  want  to  have  a  peep  round." 

"  Right,"  said  Ernest.  "  I  don't  suppose  you've  really 
ever  been  over  the  place." 

"  No.  How  are  things  ?  Are  we  busy  ?  Are  we  do- 
ing well?" 

"  Very  fair.  We're  on  full  time  and,  as  you  can  see, 
we  keep  getting  a  decent  dose  of  orders  —  and  those  are 
by  post  direct,  not  from  our  travellers." 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  come  in  about  three  o'clock, 
Ernest  —  I'll  come  to  the  office  first." 

"  Right." 

When  Ernest  had  gone  Emmie  sat  still  and  considered. 
She  who  had  once  been  a  trimmer  in  those  works  was  now 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  259 

about  to  go  over  them  as  the  mistress.  It  was  wonder- 
ful ...  like  a  fairy  tale.  .  .  .  And  how  interesting 
business  was.  A  jolly  sight,  more  interesting  than  house- 
work, with  its  dusting  and  mopping  and  washing-up  and 
bed-making  —  you're  never  done  in  a  house  ...  in  a 
sense.  .  .  . 

Then  she  seemed  to  catch  herself  idling.  She  put  the 
cap  on  her  head  again,  picked  up  a  brush  and  prepared 
to  sweep  the  dining-room.  She  went  first  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Now,  Ada,  don't  forget  that  lobby  to-day,  and  scrub 
it  well :  put  plenty  of  soap  on  your  brush  and  make  that 
pattern  shine." 

"Yes'm " 

At  three  o'clock  Emmie,  dressed  very  neatly  in  black, 
went  out  of  the  back  door  of  her  house,  through  the  gate 
and  into  the  yard  of  the  works.  One  or  two  of  the  men 
walking  about  in  shirtsleeves  and  dirty  aprons,  carrying 
hats  in  process  of  manufacture,  looked  at  her  curiously 
and  sheepishly.  They  were  not  sure  if  they  ought  to  do 
anything  —  jerk  their  heads  or  smile  or  say  "  'Ow  do?" 

Emmie,  for  that  matter,  was  not  quite  sure,  either. 
As  the  men  hurried  away  with  their  burdens  Emmie  went 
into  the  office. 

Ernest  was  there. 

"  Here  you  are,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "  You've  been  in 
here  before,  at  any  rate.  You  remember  James,  at  any 
rate." 

Emmie  nodded  to  James  Walters,  the  cashier,  a  man 
who  had  been  with  the  firm  for  forty  years.  He  was 
now  about  fifty-two,  and  had  gone  there  when  he  was 
twelve  as  the  office  boy.  He  was  bald,  but  had  a  big 
beard  and  a  fine  presence.  He  used  to  pay  Emmie  her 
wages. 


260  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Tim,"  he  said,  with  a  tiny  bow. 

"  Good  afternoon,  James,"  and  she  thought  to  herself, 
I  feel  like  putting  my  hand  out  for  my  money!  and 
was  tempted  to  smile  at  the  association  of  the  idea.  It 
was  actually  she  who  paid  James  Walters  his  money  now. 

"  These  are  the  books,"  said  Ernest,  and  he  seemed  to 
dispose  of  them  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  But  Emmie 
said: 

"  Show  me  how  the  books  are  kept  —  what  they  show." 

James  Walters  said :  "  Yes,  Mrs.  Tim,"  and  was  ap- 
parently very  pleased  to  explain  to  Emmie  how  important 
the  office  was  which  he  filled. 

The  system  was  merely  a  simple  entry:  the  daybook 
showed  the  goods  despatched  and  to  whom,  the  account 
was  transferred  to  the  ledger  and  Emmie  saw  there 
when  the  customers  p&id. 

She  was  interested,  and  thought  James  kept  his  books 
very  neatly  and  wrote  beautifully.  .  .  .  She  almost 
wished  she  could  write  better  than  she  did. 

Johnny  Dean,  the  fifteen-year-old  invoice  clerk,  perched 
up  on  the  big  stool  writing  at  the  high  desk,  kept  looking 
at  Emmie  and  wondering  if  she  would  notice  him  .  .  . 
and  what  he  should  say  if  she  did. 

Emmie  just  smiled  at  him,  as  Ernest  said :  "  You'd 
like  to  start  at  the  beginning,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

They  walked  out  of  the  office,  across  the  yard  and  into 
a  building,  a  place  where  the  floor  was  wet  and  the  atmos- 
phere steamy.  It  was  a  long  room,  with  machines  and 
pulleys  and  straps  overhead  and  men  in  shirtsleeves  and 
aprons  worked  at  benches. 

"  Mind  your  dress,"  said  Ernest. 

Emmie  picked  her  way  carefully.  It  was  a  messy 
floor.  Could  nothing  be  done  to  keep  the  place  clean? 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  261 

Ernest  said :  "  We'll  go  in  here  first,"  and  he  opened 
a  door  —  not  at  all  a  door  like  those  in  the  house,  but 
rather  planks  fastened  together  and  now  covered  with 
grime  and  dust  and  chipped  and  shrunk. 

Again  the  wet,  stony  floor.  Emmie  still  clutched  her 
dress  and  noted  where  to  put  her  feet,  for  there  were 
puddles  about. 

"  What  a  lot  of  wet,"  she  said,  as  Ernest  shut  the  door. 

"  Yes.  That's  hatting  —  heat  and  wet."  He  jerked 
his  hand  towards  some  men  who  were  working  round  a 
hexagonal-shaped  affair  with  boiling  water  in  the  middle. 
The  men  were  in  their  shirtsleeves;  some  had  no  waist- 
coats; most  of  them  wore  clogs  and  all  stood  on  a  brick 
or  two  or  pieces  of  wood  to  keep  their  feet  dry  and  to 
give  them  power  for  their  work.  In  front  of  the  big 
aprons  they  wore  they  had  a  thick  piece  of  felt  to  protect 
them  against  the  water  —  which  contained  sulphuric  acid. 

The  men  seemed  a  little  awkward  at  Emmie's  entrance. 
Not  all  of  them  recognised  her :  some  had  probably  never 
seen  her  before.  One  man  who  had  known  her  to  speak 
to  familiarly  before  she  was  married  was  prepared  to  say 
" 'Ow  do?"  but  Emmie  did  not  notice  him  across  the 
steam. 

Ernest  said :  "  This  is  where  we  start,"  and  he  led  her 
farther  in  the  room,  where  the  fur  was  being  formed 
into  a  body. 

He  picked  up  out  of  a  big  box  a  handful  of  fur  and 
explained  that  the  finished  hat  was  made  of  this  soft, 
delicate  fur,  cut  from  the  rabbit  —  coneys,  as  the  trade 
called  them. 

Emmie  murmured,  "  Rabbit."  She  had  always  known 
that  hats  were  made  of  fur  —  the  better  hat  —  but  she 
had  not  stopped  to  think  that  the  rabbit  had  to  die  to  let 
the  hat  be  born. 


262  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Ernest  went  on  to  explain  the  machinery  —  how  this 
fur  was  put  in  the  big  box  and  drawn  onto  the  big  revolv- 
ing perforated  cone  by  the  draught  caused  by  a  fan  un- 
derneath. When  there  was  enough  fur  on  to  make  a  hat 
the  man  attending  to  it  placed  over  it  a  damp  cloth. 

Emmie  nodded  and  smiled  at  the  man  who,  listening 
to  Ernest's  explanation,  interrupted  with :  "  Ah  can  re- 
member you  when  you  were  in  th'  trimmin'-room." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Emmie,  smiling.  "  Have  you  been  here 
long?" 

"  Twenty-three  year,  come  November." 

"  It's  musty,"  said  Emmie  to  Ernest. 

"  Yes.  Keep  your  mouth  closed.  This  room's  full  of 
these  floating  hairs.  That  body  you've  seen  formed  on 
that  cone  has  to  be  felted  or  planked.  It's  too  soft  as  it 
is.  It  has  to  be  shrunk  so  that  the  fur  sticks  close  to- 
gether—  till  it's  a  piece  of  felt,  so  to  speak."  Ernest 
now  pointed  to  the  other  group.  "  It's  being  felted 
there." 

"  It's  like  folk  is  fur  —  it  gets  'ardened  by  trouble  an' 
experience,"  said  the  man  who  had  spoken  before.  Em- 
mie nodded.  .  .  . 

She  now  turned  to  watch  the  men  at  that  hexagonal- 
shaped  table  with  each  side  sloping  to  the  little  tank  of 
boiling  water  and  acid  in  the  middle.  She  saw  the  men 
dip  the  fur  "  body  "  in  the  water,  then  roll  it  and  press 
it  and  dip  it  in  again  and  roll  it  and  press  it,  and  go  on 
doing  that.  ...  It  was  their  work.  They  were  felters 
or  plankers,  and  that  was  how  they  earned  their  money. 
Each  man  had  a  little  can  of  cold  water  beside  him  in 
which  to  dip  his  hands  to  protect  them  from  the  heat. 
Their  fingers  seemed  very  white  and  swollen,  as  if  the 
skin  were  dead. 

"  There's  vitriol  in  that,"  said  Ernest. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  263 

Tim  Sharpe,  the  man  who  used  to  talk  to  Emmie, 
caught  sight  of  her  and  she  recognised  him. 

"  'Avin'  a  look  round?"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The  men  worked 
hard.  Ernest  did  not  wish  to  interfere  too  soon,  but  he 
wondered  if  Emmie  cared  for  this  recognition. 

Tim  Sharpe  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  say  something, 
when  Ernest  said :  "  Shall  we  go  on  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  and  she  nodded  pleasantly  to 
Sharpe  and  all  the  men,  remarked  there  were  a  number 
of  these  curious-shaped  things  with  the  boiling  water  in 
the  middle,  and  most  of  them  had  men  working  at  them. 

When  she  had  gone  Sharpe  said :  "  I've  walked  out 
wi'  her." 

"Ast?" 

"  Ay." 

"  Tha'd  walk  out  wi'  onybody,"  said  Tom  Smail,  an 
old  hand,  and  they  all  laughed,  Sharpe  included,  who  took 
the  remark  as  a  compliment. 

As  Emmie  walked  out  of  this  shop,  across  the  yard  she 
noticed  crates  lying  about  with  "  T.  B.  &  Son  "  stamped 
on  them. 

Ernest  caught  her  look.  "  We  make  those  in  the  car- 
penter shop,"  he  said.  "  I'll  show  you  now  the  hat  when 
it's  hard." 

Emmie  glanced  about  her  and  saw  the  big  boilers  with 
the  stacks  of  coal  near.  The  engineer,  Taylor,  nodded. 

"  Seein'  things  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  reet." 

"  How  do  we  buy  coal  ?  "  Emmie  asked  Ernest. 

"  Six  months'  contract  —  sometimes  twelve.  We  want 
a  lot  of  coal  to  keep  this  place  going." 


264  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Amazing.  .  .  .  Emmie,  struck  by  the  intricacy  of  the 
place,  could  not  help  feeling  very  proud  and  thrilled. 
This  was  hers.  The  place  was  freehold  and  the  very 
spot  where  they  walked  —  that  part  of  the  earth,  at  any 
rate,  was  hers.  All  that  machinery,  too,  and  that  ma- 
terial. .  .  . 

Men  passed  her  in  dirty  aprons,  dirty  shirts,  dirty  boots 
or  clogs,  carrying  hats  in  almost  all  processes  of  manu- 
facture. Girls  and  women,  some  with  shawls  over  their 
heads  or  shoulders,  also  passed  her  and  shot  at  her  curious 
glances. 

Ernest  led  her  into  the  room  where  the  soft  felt  body 
of  the  hat  was  made  hard  by  being  stiffened  with  a  var- 
nish of  shellac.  And  everywhere  Emmie  seemed  to  meet 
a  familiar  smell.  There  was  a  general  odour  of  a  hat 
works  and  there  were  particular  odours  in  each  shop. 
Here  the  pungent  varnish  assailed  her. 

Her  attention  was  keen:  she  wanted  to  know  where 
the  shellac  came  from  and  what  it  cost. 

Ernest  said :  "  Mr.  Timothy  used  to  say  you  were 
always  safe  if  you  bought  it  at  ninety  shillings  a  hundred- 
weight ;  but  it's  a  fluctuating  thing." 

From  this  keen,  sharp-scented  room  she  just  put  her 
head  into  a  place  where  a  stove,  every  side  of  which 
was  red  hot,  dried  these  hats,  which  were  placed  on 
wooden  racks  round  it  and  looked  as  if  they  might  take 
fire. 

"  I  didn't  know  there  was  such  a  place,"  she  said. 

"  The  hats  must  dry,"  said  Ernest. 

Afterwards  came  the  blocking,  which  meant  that  the 
felt  had  been  pulled  over  a  wooden  block  to  give  it  the 
required  shape. 

She  remembered  the  dye-kettles,  the  great  coppers,  en- 
closed in  brick  with  their  boiling  dye.  Had  she  not,  as 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  265 

a  child,  been  fascinated  with  the  sight  of  these  and  won- 
dered many  a  time  if  a  man  who  stirred  the  hats  with 
the  long  pole  had  ever  tumbled  in  ...  and  what  had 
happened  to  him  if  he  had  .  .  .  and  could  one  make  nig- 
gers and  black  men  that  way? 

As  they  left  the  dye  shop  Emmie  noticed  a  little  shed 
with  a  curious  kind  of  axe  in  it,  and  rather  attractive 
wood. 

"What's  that?"  she  asked. 

"  Logwood.  We  make  dye  of  it.  But  there's  some- 
thing coming  in  called  aniline  dye.  ...  I  don't  know  if 
it'll  be  any  good,  but  it's  being  used." 

Emmie  stopped  once,  as  if  she  would  try  to  recall  it 
all.  She  smiled.  "  I  wonder  if  I  shall  remember,"  she 
said. 

"  Easy  enough.  Once  you  know  your  way  about  you 
can  always  look  round,  can't  you  ? " 

"  Yes." 

Look  round  her  own  works.  .  .  .  She  should  think  so. 
But  there  was  more  in  hatting  than  she  had  thought. 
Imagine  the  little  rabbit  running  about,  and  the  felt  hat 
in  every  shape  and  form,  soft  or  hard,  black,  white, 
brown,  terra-cotta  —  any  colour  —  were  all  made  from 
its  fur.  .  .  .  Wonderful! 

Another  smell  in  the  finishing  shop.  And  here  there 
was  a  special  noise,  and  both  noise  and  smell  appealed  to 
her  at  once,  for  before  she  had  started  trimming  she  had 
come  many  a  time  to  this  place  to  bring  her  father  his 
tea. 

There  the  hats  were  being  finished,  and  her  father  was 
a  "  finisher."  The  hat  was  put  on  a  block  made  to  re- 
volve by  the  pulling  of  a  lever,  and  as  it  spun  round  the 
finisher  held  fine  emery  paper  to  it  and  finally  gave  it  a 
polish. 


266  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Most  of  the  finishers  knew  her.  One  of  them  next  to 
Bollins  said:  "Here's  your  Emmie." 

Bollins  looked  up.  He  swallowed.  He  had  held  his 
head  proudly  in  that  shop  ever  since  his  daughter  had 
married  the  boss's  son. 

Emmie  went  straight  up  to  him. 

"  Well,  Father." 

"  Hello.  .  .  .  Having  a  look  over  your  shop  ?  " 

"  Yes."  She  nodded  to  the  men  near.  Ernest  talked 
to  one  or  two  about  the  hats  they  were  engaged  on. 

The  man  working  next  to  Bollins  said  to  Emmie : 

"  I  can  remember  you  when  you  were  no  higher  than 
this  here  " —  he  pointed  to  the  bench. 

"  I  think  I  remember  you,"  she  said. 

"You  ought  to,"  he  replied  quickly. 

Weston,  a  solemn-looking  man,  said  quietly :  "  It's 
a  funny  world!  I  never  thowt  when  I  used  to  see  you 
comin'  'ere  with  your  father's  tea  that  one  day  these  'ud 
all  be  yours  —  they're  gradely  yours,  arena  they  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  So  I  'card."  He  nodded  his  head,  spun  round  his 
hat  and  applied  velours  to  it. 

"  You  know  what  this  is?  "  said  Ernest  to  her. 

"  Yes  —  being  finished." 

She  nodded,  picked  up  her  dress.  "  Come  and  have 
some  supper,  Father,  to-night,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  To-night  ...  h'm  ...  all  right." 

"  I'll  send  word  to  mother." 

Emmie,  holding  her  dress,  nodded  pleasantly  as  she 
passed  the  men,  noted  the  hats  about,  the  smell,  the  noise 
of  the  whirring  machines  and  went  out  into  the  yard. 

"  There's  the  trimming  now,"  said  Ernest. 

Emmie  smiled.     She  was  feeling  very  happy. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  er."     She  hesitated.     It  would 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  267 

be  rather  a  triumph  to  return  to  that  room  as  the  em- 
ployer of  all  the  trimmers!  And  yet  .  .  .  there  were 
other  considerations.  .  .  . 

"  At  any  rate,  you  don't  want  to  be  told  anything  about 
that,"  said  Ernest,  breaking  in  on  her  thoughts. 

She  laughed.  "  No."  It  would  perhaps  be  best  not 
to  visit  so  publicly  the  scene  of  her  employe  days. 

"  There's  the  warehouse,"  said  Ernest. 

"  I'll  see  that." 

Even  now  she  could  recall  the  desire  she  had  when  a 
trimmer  to  go  into  the  warehouse.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause the  men  there  were  usually  more  polished,  not  so 
untidy  or  dirty  or  rough  looking  as  at  the  plank. 

She  climbed  stairs  and  entered  a  spacious  room  with 
hats  of  every  variety  lying  about  in  abundance.  Hats 
were  in  parcels  and  in  boxes,  on  racks  and  shelves  and 
benches. 

Two  or  three  young  men  moved  about  aisles  and  pas- 
sages and  carried  parcels  under  their  arms  or  balanced 
a  dozen  boxes  or  looked  at  a  hat. 

"  This  is  Arthur  Sims,"  said  Ernest. 

Emmie  said :    "  Oh,  yes.     Of  course." 

She  remembered  Arthur  Sims :  he  had  always  been  shy 
when  he  had  been  obliged  to  come  into  the  trimming- 
room.  He  was  father  now,  and  had  a  moustache  and  a 
beard  that  was  a  couple  of  days  too  long. 

"  Having  a  look  round  ?  "  he  said,  pronouncing  both 
his  "  h  "  and  his  "  g  "  very  distinctly. 

"  Yes." 

Arthur  turned  to  Ernest. 

"  That  lot  from  S.  W.  &  Co.  haven't  come  yet,  Ernest." 

"Haven't  they?" 

"  No." 

"  Better  send  a  boy." 


268  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  I  think  so ;  we  want  'em  badly." 

Emmie  wondered :  I  wonder  what  they  call  me 
amongst  themselves  —  Emmie  or  Mrs.  Tim  ?  All  the 
men  had  Christian  names,  and  nothing  else,  when  they 
addressed  one  another.  Then  she  looked  at  the  big  stock 
of  hats :  here  they  were  gathered,  put  into  parcels  and 
then  sent  to  be  packed  in  crates  to  be  despatched  to  all 
quarters.  .  .  . 

And  it  was  all  hers  —  every  bit  of  it. 

She  gasped.     It  was  a  most  amazing  thing. 

The  windows  of  the  warehouse  looked  over  fields  at 
the  back  —  rather  dirty  looking  fields,  but  Emmie  thought 
the  outlook  rather  pleasant.  The  green  was  cheerful  and 
the  hedges  and  bunches  of  trees  struck  her  pleasantly. 

"  Of  course  there's  a  lot  more,"  said  Ernest. 

"  I  think  this  will  do  for  to-day,"  Emmie  answered. 
"  Good  afternoon  .  .  .  Arthur." 

"Good  afternoon,  er  —  er — "  He  got  no  further 
with  the  name. 

As  Emmie  stood  at  the  doorway  she  thought :  I  would 
like  to  go  in  that  trimming-room.  .  .  .  Just  pop  my  head 
in.  ...  Alice  Cannell  isn't  there  now.  ...  I  wonder 
who  is?  .  .  .  They'd  say  I  only  went  in  to  show  off. 
She  chuckled:  and  I  could  sack  the  lot  of  them  if  I 
wanted.  .  .  . 

Ernest  said:     "Thinking  of  something  pleasant?" 

"  Just  wondering.  ...  I  think  I'll  go  now.  If  I  can 
remember  what  I've  seen  to-day  I  shall  do  very  well." 

"  You  must  come  in  often.  You'll  soon  get  to  know 
things  then." 

"  It  seems  dirty,  somehow.  I  suppose  it  couldn't  be 
kept  clean?" 

Ernest  shook  his  head. 

"  What  can  you  do  with  steam  ?     It  means  water,  and 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  269 

that  always  means  mud  if  there's  any  walking  about. 
And  for  hats  you  must  have  moisture  and  pressure  and 
heat.  The  place  is  swept  every  morning  and  it's  as  you 
see  it  now  every  afternoon.  You  couldn't  expect  miners 
to  keep  spotless,  could  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  suppose  it's  part  of  the  trade.  Well,  thank 
you,  Ernest.  I'll  leave  you  now.  Come  in  if  there's  any- 
thing you  want  to  tell  me  to-night." 

"  Right." 

Emmie  picked  up  her  dress  again,  walked  down  the 
steps  into  the  yard,  caught  that  general  odour  of  hats, 
an  odour  that  suggests  hats  to  the  hatter  and  nothing 
else,  realised  she  was  in  a  most  familiar  atmosphere,  and 
went  across  the  yard  into  her  own  house,  where  she  sat 
down  and  said  to  herself :  "  Well  .  .  .  it's  been  like 
going  over  an  estate.  .  .  ." 

Let  another  take  that  out  of  her  hands.  .  .  .  What  a 
fool  she  would  have  been!  She  was  thrilled  with  the 
visit  and  its  revelation  to  her  of  her  possession. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MRS.  HOLTEN  and  Miss  Booke  did  not  cover  up 
their  feelings  over  Emmie's  assumption  of  "  imme- 
diate supervision "  of  T.  Booke  &  Son's.  These  two 
ladies  were  not  in  the  habit  of  covering  up  their  feelings 
and  habit  had  given  their  tongues  an  almost  licentious 
freedom.  And  yet  they  swung  between  outspokenness 
and  silence,  both  harbours  of  refuge  for  those  who  feel. 
Emmie  could  not  be  ignored  after  all;  she  was  Tim's 
widow;  she  did  bear  the  name  of  Booke  and  the  Bookes 
were  very  sensitive  to  public  opinion.  They  liked  that 
opinion  to  approve  of  Bookes  in  full  circumstances,  even 
though  they  realised  on  occasions  that  they  were  not  alto- 
gether popular. 

Timothy  said  nothing.  He  was  anxious  and  wished 
well  to  Emmie,  but  he  did  not  want  the  business  to  suffer. 
He  had  a  fear  that  if  T.  Booke  &  Son  went  down  he 
would  hear  gibes  and  sneers  —  or  at  least  feel  them. 
There  is  not  even  virtue  in  failure  to  command  a  sym- 
pathy of  substance.  So,  though  he  was  apprehensive, 
his  pride  forbade  any  appeal  to  Emmie.  He  was  a  man 
of  his  word,  stubborn  and  obstinate,  reliable,  but  not 
loveable  to  the  average. 

He  rarely  spoke  of  the  business  to  Emmie.  Occa- 
sionally he  would  say:  "Things  going  on  all  right?" 
as  if  he  hungered  for  some  news.  Emmie  generally  re- 
assured him,  and  as  he  saw  the  works  on  full  time  and  on 
overtime  in  the  busy  season,  he  began  to  lose  some  of  his 
fears  and  to  entertain  a  higher  respect  for  his  daughter- 
in-law.  He  got  on  with  Emmie  very  well,  generally 

270 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  271 

speaking.  He  knew  she  had  been  a  good  wife  to  Tim 
and,  as  far  as  he  could  judge,  she  was  a  good  mother 
to  the  children  and  brought  no  discredit  on  the  name  she 
bore.  Besides,  her  personality  pleased  him. 

Mrs.  Grass,  also,  was  very  frendly  with  Emmie.  She 
went  with  her  now  and  then  to  Manchester  when  they 
shopped  together,  and  had  tea  in  St.  Anne's  Square. 

But  Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  could  not  altogether 
overlook  the  fact  that  Emmie  (Emmie  Bollins,  when  it 
was  a  question  of  putting  her  down)  had  ignored  their 
advice,  braved  them,  passed  Timothy  by  and  assumed 
possession  of  their  factory.  Of  course,  it  was  theirs 
when  they  thought  of  it  in  relation  to  Emmie  Bollins, 
though  they  did  not  own  a  stone  or  stick  in  the  place. 
But  sentimentally,  ideally,  feelingly  it  was  theirs.  They 
were  Bookes:  the  firm  was  T.  Booke  &  Son,  and  that 
Emmie  Bollins,  through  having  the  luck  to  marry  Tim, 
had  inherited  the  business  and  had  taken  possession  of 
it  as  if  it  had  been  in  her  family  for  generations.  .  .  . 

It  is  also  probable  they  were  a  little  jealous  of  Emmie, 
even  though  they  were  comforted  to  some  extent  when 
they  knew  the  business  continued  to  prosper.  They  put 
the  credit  generally  on  the  reputation  of  the  firm  and  the 
sound  lines  upon  which  it  had  been  built  up.  Ernest 
Mullins  had  only  got  to  keep  it  on  those  lines.  And 
Emmie  .  .  .  she  had  only  to  draw  the  money.  .  .  . 

They  tried  to  adopt  that  tone  occasionally  with  Emmie. 
They  said  how  grateful  she  ought  to  be  that  she  had  a 
business  so  soundly  put  together  that  it  could  go  by  it- 
self now.  ...  It  would  have  been  a  serious  thing  if 
T.  Booke  &  Son  had  had  a  poor  foundation  .  .  .  what- 
ever would  she  have  done?  The  place  would  have  col- 
lapsed without  grandpa's  guidance.  .  .  .  She  could  thank 
her  stars  the  Bookes  had  been  such  good  business  people 


272  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

in  the  past.  As  for  Ernest  Mullins,  well,  he  was  steady, 
thank  God !  but  steadiness  wasn't  enough  nowadays  — 
unless,  of  course,  you  had  the  luck  to  come  in  for  an 
old  and  well-established  business,  and  even  then.  .  .  . 
Well.  .  .  . 

Here  followed  wagging  of  heads.  Mrs.  Holten  and 
Miss  Booke  could  do  this  kind  of  thing  remarkably  well. 
Mrs.  Grass,  when  she  was  present,  would  wish  her  sis- 
ters wouldn't  get  at  Emmie  so  much,  and  the  men  would 
say  to  themselves  it  was  a  "  damn  shame,"  although  Tim- 
othy comforted  himself  with  the  thought  that  Emmie 
could  look  after  herself. 

And  Emmie  could.  It  may  have  been  philosophy  or 
merely  her  temperament  or  her  health  and  great  vitality 
or  simply  tolerance  due  to  her  prosperity,  but  she  rarely 
replied.  Occasionally  she  got  in  a  neat  little  blow  and 
generally  gave  the  Booke  ladies  to  feel  there  was  sub- 
stance for  them  if  they  went  too  far ;  but  she  rarely  made 
a  fuss  over  their  remarks.  She  could  be  silent  or  smile 
and  talk  about  something  else  and  go  on  with  the  busi- 
ness and  life  as  if  she  were  neither  to  be  worried  nor 
bound  down  by  the  ladies  of  the  family  into  which  she 
had  married.  Yet  at  the  same  time  neither  they  nor  the 
family  could  be  ignored.  She  was  Mrs.  Booke.  She 
was  "T.  Booke  &  Son."  She  always  felt  the  Bookes 
had  got  hold  of  her  and  she  considered  herself  as  one 
of  the  family  with  the  family  obligations  on  her. 

Her  life  was  full,  but  not  exciting.  She  was  happy 
because  she  had  plenty  to  do  and  was  quite  capable  of 
doing  it  all  with  zest.  She  attended  to  her  children  well, 
she  managed  her  house  well,  and  she  carried  out  faith- 
fully the  note  on  the  circular :  she  gave  a  personal  super- 
vision to  the  business  of  T.  Booke  &  Son. 

Her  children  grew  up,  the  business  fluctuated.     In 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  273 

1893  there  were  hard  times.  There  was  a  great  cotton 
strike  in  Lancashire,  and  when  weavers  and  spinners  get 
no  wages  they  can't  buy  hats.  Agriculture  was  very  de- 
pressed. And  in  1893,  too,  there  was  also  a  great  coal 
strike,  settled  ultimately  by  Lord  Rosebery's  interven- 
tion on  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Gladstone. 

These  things  sent  hatting  under  a  cloud,  but  as  Emmie 
knew  that  most  hat  shops  in  Canton  suffered,  she  was  not 
depressed. 

In  1895  Emmie  was  still  radiantly  healthy.  She  was 
just  thirty  years  of  age,  and  scarcely  looked  it.  She  had 
been  a  widow  over  three  years  and  was  now  wearing 
colours  again  and  spending  rather  more  on  dress  than 
the  average  hat  manufacturer's  wife  in  Canton,  for  she 
had  no  one  to  check  her,  no  one  to  say,  "  That's  a  lot  o' 
money ! "  Not  that  Tim  would  have  said  that,  only 
Emmie  knew  if  he  had  been  alive  she  would  not  have 
been  quite  so  extravagant  on  dress. 

In  the  Summer  of  1895  Emmie  went  with  her  chil- 
dren to  Blackpool.  Mrs.  Grass  went  with  her,  and  Miss 
Booke  thought  she  would  join  them  later. 

Emmie  Booke  did  not  go  as  Emmie  Bollins  had  gone. 
Emmie  almost  always  thought  of  that  when  she  went  to 
Blackpool.  Those  cheap  rooms  with  Alice  Cannell  (who 
was  now  married  to  a  warehouseman  employed  by  Yates, 
Beeston  &  Higgins).  .  .  .  But  she  was  happy  then.  .  .  . 
Tim  was  just  making  up  to  her. 

Now  she  went  to  "  The  Towers,"  one  of  the  most  ex- 
pensive boarding  houses  in  the  place.  She  stayed  a  fort- 
night and  did  herself  well. 

She  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  preparations  for  going 
away,  even  though  they  had  entailed  labour,  for  the  an- 
ticipations had  been  most  agreeable.  She  would  do  no 
work  for  a  fortnight  and  she  would  thoroughly  enjoy 


274  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

herself.  She  took  Ada  with  her  to  help  with  Tim  and 
Alice,  who  were  now  nine  and  six  respectively. 

Mrs.  Grass  and  Emmie  and  the  two  children  sat  at  a  lit- 
tle table  reserved  exclusively  for  them.  Both  Mrs.  Grass 
and  Emmie  shot  curious  and  searching  glances  at  the 
occupants  of  the  other  tables. 

"  Emmie,"  whispered  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  a  nice  table  in  the  corner  —  to  my  left." 

"  You  mean  that  lady  in  black  and  white." 

"  Yes.  That's  a  lady,  if  you  like.  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  she  isn't  somebody,"  Mrs.  Grass  nodded ;  "  some- 
body that  is  somebody,  you  know.  You  can  meet  nice 
people  at  this  place." 

Emmie  nodded. 

"  She  does  look  stylish.  ...  I  suppose  that's  her  hus- 
band, and  those  two  will  be  her  daughters."  Emmie 
was  observing  with  keenness  the  lady's  dress. 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  There  was  a  baronet's  wife  here  once," 
said  Mrs.  Grass,  "  when  Fred  and  I  came  once  in  Sep- 
tember. Yes  .  .  .  stuck-up  thing,  though.  She  used 
to  walk  out  of  this  room  as  if  she  owned  the  place  .  .  . 
head  up.  ...  She  sat  over  by  the  window  there.  This 
fish  is  nice  —  nicely  cooked." 

"  Yes,  they  might  put  a  few  more  shrimps  in  the 
sauce." 

"  Yes,  they're  cheap  enough.  I  like  that  brown  dress 
—  by  your  right." 

"Um-m.  . 

Mrs.  Grass,  as  she  ate,  put  her  knife  and  fork  down 
with  a  far  greater  deliberateness  than  was  her  custom  — 
except,  of  course,  in  hotels  and  boarding-houses.  She 
sat  up  well,  too,  and  looked  round  her  very  keenly,  but 
also  with  the  consciousness  that  if  anybody  was  observing 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  275 

her  then  they  should  get  her  at  what  she  would  try  to 
be  her  best. 

Emmie  was  not  dissimilar.  Emmie's  youth  and  char- 
acter and  good  looks  and  prosperity  gave  her  a  feeling 
of  self-confidence  that  was  more  than  an  unafraidness  of 
scrutiny  —  it  is  almost  an  invitation.  She  turned  round 
and  looked  round  at  first  with  a  little  diffidence  because 
she  could  not  at  once  be  thoroughly  at  her  ease  in  cir- 
cumstances that  were  different  from  usual;  but  very 
quickly  she  assimilated  the  novelty  —  and  was  easier 
sooner  than  Mrs.  Grass. 

Emmie  was  a  striking  figure  and  she  speedily  saw  she 
was  the  observed  of  a  good  many  observers.  She  could 
tell  what  the  comments  were.  ..."  A  good-looking 
woman.  .  .  ."  "  That's  a  pretty  woman."  She  knew 
it.  She  could  tell  from  their  looks  and  attitudes  that 
was  what  they  were  saying.  She  wondered  what  some 
of  them  would  say  if  they  knew  she  owned  a  hat  factory. 

These  thoughts  came  and  went  speedily  and  had  no 
spoiling  effect  on  her.  She  looked  after  her  children,  who 
behaved  very  well,  and  gossiped  easily  with  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  Very  nice  dinner,"  whispered  Mrs.  Grass,  as  they 
sipped  their  coffee. 

"  Yes."  Emmie  had  enjoyed  the  five-course  dinner 
with  the  well-dressed  people  round  her.  "  Now  you  can 
have  a  little  walk,  children,  and  then  bed." 

"  Can  I  paddle  to-morrow  morning,  Mother  ?  "  asked 
Tim. 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"Me,  too,  Mammy?"  asked  Alice. 

"  Yes,  dear;  you,  too,  if  you  want." 

"  I'm  going  to  take  my  bucket  and  spade  out  to-mor- 
row, Mother." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Alice. 


276  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"Mother?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Why  do  we  have  dinner  at  seven  o'clock  ?  "  asked 
Tim. 

"  It's  usual  here,  dear." 

Mrs.  Grass  looked  at  Emmie  with  a  queer  smile  on  her 
face  and  wanted  to  "  hush  "  Tim ;  and  Emmie  smiled 
and  Tim  was  convinced  the  whole  arrangement  was  very 
funny. 

"  What  shall  we  do  —  go  on  the  pier  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Grass. 

"  If  you  like." 

"  I  always  think  you  get  good  fresh  air  that  way,  and 
we  can  get  a  fortnightly  ticket  straightaway." 

So  after  dinner  Mrs.  Grass  and  Emmie  went  to  their 
rooms  to  put  on  their  hats  and  mantles,  and  Ada  was 
told  to  take  the  children  for  a  walk  along  the  front  and 
then  put  them  to  bed. 

However,  when  Emmie  came  down,  she  saw  a  gentle- 
man talking  to  Tim  and  Alice.  He  was  sitting  in  a  big 
wicker  chair  by  the  door  and  had  Alice  on  his  knee.  Tim 
was  standing  by  him  and  looking  very  interested. 

Tim  had  explained  that  his  father  was  dead  —  it  came 
out  in  answer  to  a  remark  from  the  gentleman,  but  came 
out  also  with  a  certain  not  quite  pride,  but  zest,  as  if 
Tim  had  got  a  good  deal  of  sympathy  and  petting  and 
probably  pence  through  being  fatherless.  And  Alice  had 
added  a  swift  corroboration :  "  I've  no  daddy  either." 

And  the  gentleman  had  said  that  he  knew  they  were 
very  good  to  their  mother  then,  a  statement  with  which 
they  were  both  willing  and  eager  to  agree.  Then  he  took 
a  shark's  tooth  from  his  pocket  and  asked  them  if  they 
knew  what  it  was  and,  of  course,  he  had  to  explain,  and 
he  did  it  so  delightfully  that  the  children  were  interested 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  277 

at  once  and  wanted  to  know  all  about  sharks  and  ships 
and  deep  waters.  .  .  . 

Emmie  came  down  to  a  rather  striking  picture. 

She,  herself,  was  striking.  Her  eyes  were  bright;  she 
looked  well,  she  was  dressed  well,  and  she  smiled  at  her 
children. 

The  gentleman  got  up. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  keeping  your  beautiful  children 
from  getting  out,  but  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  get  home 
again  and  see  bonny  English  children." 

Emmie  scarcely  knew  what  to  say. 

"  I  hope  they  haven't  disturbed  you,"  she  muttered. 

"  Disturbed  me  ...  on  the  contrary " 

"  Mother,"  said  Tim,  "  the  gentleman's  got  a  shark's 
tooth  —  from  a  shark,  a  great  big  fish  that  eats  men. 
Show  it  mother,"  he  said  to  the  gentleman,  who  smiled 
depreciatingly,  took  out  the  tooth  and  said  casually: 
"  One  we  caught  about  a  day's  sail  from  Adelaide. 
Luckily,  we  don't  get  the  beasts  here.  But  I  mustn't 
keep  you."  He  said  it  very  politely  and  Emmie  felt  the 
politeness  and  a  note  of  something  else.  "  I  suppose  you 
are  going  to  have  a  little  stroll  with  them." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Emmie,  "  I  am  with  my  aunt,  and 
we  are  going  on  the  pier:  the  children  are  just  taking  a 
turn  with  the  maid  before  going  to  bed." 

He  nodded  very  pleasantly. 

"  There's  an  excellent  concert  on  the  pier  to-night." 

And  then  Mrs.  Grass  came  down  and  Ada  went  off 
with  the  children,  and  Emmie  nodded  to  the  gentleman 
and  Mrs.  Grass  also  nodded  slightly,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  ought  to  do,  not  having  been  introduced,  though, 
as  she  thought,  it  really  didn't  matter  in  boarding-houses, 
as  you  generally  talked  to  people  and  got  to  know  them 
that  way  without  introductions. 


278  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

And  what  a  nice  gentleman  he  looked.  .  .  . 

As  Emmie  and  Mrs.  Grass  walked  away  Mrs.  Grass 
whispered : 

"  Who  is  that?     Do  you  know  him?  " 

"  He  was  talking  to  Tim  and  Alice  when  I  came  down." 

"  Oh-h.  .  .  .  He  looked  very  nice  .  .  .  quite  a  gen- 
tleman. .  .  .  But  I've  always  noticed  they  have  very  nice 
people  staying  at  The  Towers.  They  do  well  —  they  do 
that.  I  told  you  about  that  Lady  Somebody  or  other  — 
Lady  Roller,  yes,  that  was  it,  Lady  Roller  —  came  from 
near  London,  I  heard.  There  was  such  a  nice  clergy- 
man's wife  there,  too:  no  stuck-upness  about  her,  and 
not  always  talking  about  religion.  Your  Aunt  Jane  was 
struck  with  her  —  such  a  lady  she  was.  Doesn't  this  air 
feel  fresh?" 

Mrs.  Grass  inhaled  noisily. 

Emmie  nodded.  "  Yes,  Blackpool  always  agrees  with 
me." 

But  she  was  saying  to  herself:  "I  wonder  who  that 
man  was.  .  .  .  Travelled,  at  any  rate.  .  .  .  And  so  gen- 
tlemanly. .  .  .  What  a  nice  voice!  And  he  didn't  have 
eyes  in  his  head  for  nothing,  either.  .  .  .  Had  he  talked 
to  Tim  and  Alice  so  that  he  could  talk  to  the  mother?  " 

Emmie  was  able  to  note  other  people  quickly,  but  she 
was  also  characteristically  feminine  in  noting  or  wonder- 
ing what  effect  she  produced  on  other  people.  Had  she 
really  made  some  sort  of  an  impression  on  that  gentle- 
man ?  Perhaps  he  had  been  watching  her  at  dinner.  .  .  . 
It  was  nothing,  of  course,  but  it  was  interesting  .  .  . 
very  interesting.  .  .  . 

A  woman  never  grows  out  of  the  satisfaction  she  gets 
from  being  interesting  to  a  man. 

"  We're  going  on  the  pier,  aren't  we  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Grass. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  279 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie.  "  He  said  —  that  gentleman, 
you  know  —  there  was  a  good  concert  there  to-night." 

"  I'm  glad.  I  don't  like  classical  stuff  so  much.  I  like 
Gilbert  and  Sullivan,  don't  you?  Have  you  ever  seen 
'The  Gondoliers'?" 

"Yes.  .  .  ." 

"  Lovely,  isn't  it  ?  Is  he  —  that  gentleman  —  going 
on  the  pier?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Emmie.  "  He  said  he  supposed 
we  were  going  for  a  stroll,  and  I  said  we  were  going  on 
the  pier,  so  he  said  there  was  a  good  concert  there  to- 
night." 

"Oh-h.  .  .  ."  She  inhaled  again.  "This  air  is 
good." 

Emmie  agreed,  and  noted  the  people  walking  about, 
the  unmistakable  Lancashire  accent  and  the  equally  un- 
mistakable accent  that  had  no  trace  of  provincialism  in 
it,  and  this  Emmie  liked  to  hear.  She  liked  to  think 
sometimes  she  talked  like  that  —  when  she  was  careful. 

But  what  she  thought  of  most  just  now  was  the  gentle- 
man who  was  talking  to  Tim.  .  .  .  He  had  made  an 
impression  on  her.  What  a  fine,  gentlemanly  man  he 
was !  Spoke  easily  and  with  no  Lancashire  accent  —  a 
gentleman,  one  could  see  that.  And  that  look  in  his 
eyes.  .  .  .  He  wasn't  just  seeing  when  he  looked  like 
that.  No  fear.  He  was  reading,  conveying  a  mes- 
sage. .  .  . 

Emmie  felt  a  great  satisfaction  in  this  disturbance  of 
a  male  —  and  such  an  one,  too !  There  were  pretty  girls 
in  that  boarding-house,  and  this  fine,  handsome  gentle- 
man talked  to  her  children  and  then  to  her  and  looked 
at  her  —  well,  if  he  didn't  like  looking  at  her,  to  put  it 
mildly,  he'd  no  business  to  look  at  her  as  he  did.  And 
yet,  of  course,  it  was  really  nothing,  scarcely  noticeable 


280  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

.  .  .  perhaps  he  was  one  of  those  men  who  looked  at 
every  woman;  well,  every  pretty  woman,  like  that. 
There  were  lots  of  them  about. 

But  she  could  see  his  eyes  full  of  appreciation  and 
satisfaction;  she  could  see  them  travel  over  her  clothes, 
and  knew  he  was  taking  in  her  dress  and  her  figure. 
Well  .  .  .  she  could  stand  being  looked  at  for  either  and 
didn't  care  what  anybody  said.  .  .  . 

The  sun  had  just  set  and  the  sky  near  the  horizon  was 
in  bands  of  gorgeous  colours  from  black  to  a  blood-red, 
with  a  blue-grey  dome  above,  where  floated  lost  clouds, 
tender  wisps  of  things,  as  if  some  lovely  creature  had 
left  a  shawl  or  a  bit  of  lace  behind  her. 

The  water  danced  with  shadows  of  light.  A  steamer 
coming  back  from  the  Isle  of  Man  or  Llandudno  or 
Liverpool  puffed  a  long,  lazy  line  of  black  smoke  against 
a  dark  band  of  cloud;  two  vessels  with  nut-brown  sails 
emptied  their  passengers  on  the  sands,  while  the  dark 
silhouettes  of  the  curious  spectators  showed  clear  against 
the  foaming  waves  and  glistening  sea. 

Many  of  the  people  had  no  capes  or  coats.  The  blouses 
had  the  big  balloon  sleeves  and  the  dresses  were  inclined 
to  trail  if  not  held  up.  Emmie  was  wearing  a  plain  pale 
mauve  cloth  skirt,  a  short  coat  of  cream  guipure  with  a 
vest  of  mauve-shot  chiffon,  very  stylish,  as  the  shop  labels 
say ;  a  black  straw  with  coloured  roses  and  violets.  Her 
hair  was  fringed  above  the  forehead  and  coiled  in  rings 
and  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

Mrs.  Grass  could  not  afford  to  dress  as  well  as  Emmie, 
but  she  was  very  neat  and  felt  quite  pleased  to  be  out 
with  her  beautiful  and  elegant  niece. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 


People  on  the  pier  were  walking  up  and  down  in  long 
lines,  as  if  promenading  after  dinner  was  a  rite. 

Mrs.  Grass  said :  "  Shall  we  go  inside  and  hear  the 
band,  or  shall  we  stay  here  ?  " 

Emmie  thought:  He  said  it  was  a  good  programme 
and  just  as  swiftly,  what  a  silly  thing  she  was ! 

"  I  don't  mind,"  she  said,  leaving  it  an  open  question. 

Mrs.  Holten  or  Miss  Booke  would  promptly  have  de- 
cided what  to  do :  they  liked  making  up  their  minds,  par- 
ticularly when  it  meant  the  making  up  of  other  people's 
also. 

Mrs.  Grass  hesitated. 

"  It's  a  lovely  evening,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  thinking,  I  wonder  if  he'll  come 
here.  .  .  .  He  might.  "  Let's  walk  up  and  down,"  she 
said  quickly,  really  out  of  a  sort  of  impatience  with  her- 
self for  having  such  thoughts. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Grass  agreeably,  "  we  can  go  and 
hear  a  concert  when  it's  wet.  And  I  like  watching  the 
people,  don't  you,  Emmie  ?  " 

"Yes." 

They  were  sitting  at  the  side  of  the  pier  watching  the 
people  mostly,  but  turning  every  now  and  then  to  look 
at  the  waves  which  swung  along  beneath  them  to  be 
shattered  into  foam  farther  up  the  beach,  when  Emmie, 
who  had  been  seeing  with  noteworthy  frequency  a  man 
with  bold  blue  eyes  and  fine  shoulders  come  through  the 
crowd  (to  be  disappointed  —  or  wrong,  at  any  rate),  sud- 
denly saw  him  actually.  He  was  here.  It  was  he.  He 
was  looking  about,  too.  Emmie  did  not  catch  his  eye, 
but  she  saw  its  roving  look  and  wondered  if  he  really 
were  desirous  of  seeing  her.  .  .  .  How  funny.  ...  It 
wasn't  funny  at  all.  .  .  .  Well,  but  a  widow  with  two 
children.  ...  At  any  rate,  she  determined  he  should 


282  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

come  up  if  he  wished  to  do  so  without  encouragement 
from  her. 

She  looked  over  the  pier. 

"  Doesn't  it  look  deep  and  terrible?  "  she  said  to  Mrs. 
Grass. 

"  It  terrifies  me  sometimes.  I  keep  wondering  what  I 
should  do  if  I  fell  in.  ...  Just  look  at  that  big  wave." 

But  Emmie  had  almost  lost  interest  in  the  fascinating 
sea.  She  was  saying  to  herself :  He  ought  to  be  here 
now  ...  he  ought  to  be  behind  us  —  if  he  meant  com- 
ing—  and  saw  us.  .  .  .  What  a  fool  she  was,  she 
thought!  What  in  the  world  did  she  turn  her  back  on 
the  man  for?  There  was  no  sense  in  that.  He  might 
not  see  her  at  all  and  go  past.  .  .  .  And  in  any  case  why 
shouldn't  she  look  at  him  ?  .  .  . 

"  Yes,"  she  said  dreamily,  in  reply  to  Mrs.  Grass,  and 
turned  round. 

Her  heart  gave  a  leap.  Good  Heavens!  What's  the 
matter  with  me!  she  thought,  and  colour  came  into  her 
face  which  made  her  call  herself  other  names. 

The  gentleman  with  the  blue  eyes  and  fine  shoulders 
and  sandy  moustache  was  smoking  a  cigar  and  standing 
near  her. 

He  raised  his  straw  hat  slightly,  took  his  cigar  out  of 
his  mouth  and  said :  "  You  didn't  like  to  go  inside  this 
beautiful  night?" 

"  No,"  replied  Emmie. 


CHAPTER  XX 

\T7HEN  Mrs.  Grass  turned  round  to  see  who  it  was 
^*     talking  to  Emmie,  she  recognised  the  gentleman 
from  "  The  Towers  "  and  responded  to  his  bow. 

"  I  think  you  have  chosen  the  better  part,"  he  said  to 
her.  "  The  concert-room  can  get  very  stuffy." 

"  Just  what  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Grass.  "  And  it's 
so  beautiful  out  here.  I  always  like  sitting  on  the  pier." 

"  Very  refreshing.  But  the  sea  always  is :  one  never 
tires  of  it." 

"  I  suppose  you've  seen  a  lot  of  it,"  said  Emmie,  who 
thought  that  as  he  was  there  and  was  talking  to  them, 
she  might  as  well  see  what  he  was  made  of. 

He  moved  a  little  depreciatingly. 

"  A  bit,"  he  said. 

"  You've  been  to  Australia,"  she  said. 

"  Yes  —  three  or  four  times." 

"  Three  or  four  times.  .  .  ."  That  was  astonishing. 
Emmie  could  not  even  say  that  about  the  Isle  of  Man. 
She  looked  her  surprise.  "  I  should  think  you  have  seen 
a  bit  of  the  sea,"  she  said,  speaking  in  a  challenging  way, 
as  if  she  were  on  good  terms  with  him  and  could  indulge 
in  friendly  raillery. 

He  laughed. 

Mrs.  Grass  looked  him  up  and  down  and  tried  to  take 
his  full  measure.  Emmie  was  wondering  what  kind  of 
a  man  he  was  .  .  .  and  what  did  he  think  about  her. 
He  was  certainly  gentlemanly. 

"  I  suppose  you've  been  on  business?  "  said  Mrs.  Grass, 
who  could  ask  direct  questions  when  she  chose,  and  liked 
to  glean  personal  information. 

283 


284  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  Yes.  I've  been  in  the  East  for  three  years,  and  only 
got  back  a  month  ago." 

"  In  the  East.  .  .  ."     There  was  glamour  in  the  word. 

Emmie  looked  up.     "  What,  er  .  .  .  what  part  ?  " 

"Japan,  China,  Java  —  the  whole  of  the  Archipel- 
ago." 

Both  the  ladies  were  impressed. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  walk  a  bit,  Emmie  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Grass,  rising. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Sophia,"  said  Emmie,  and  Mrs.  Grass  was 
shrewd  enough  to  guess  that  Emmie  had  said  "  Aunt 
Sophia  "  to  let  this  gentleman  know  the  relationship  that 
existed  between  them. 

Emmie  also  guessed  that  her  aunt  had  guessed  and  did 
not  care. 

The  gentleman  saw  that  "  Aunt  Sophia  "  had  not  meant 
to  dismiss  him,  and  Emmie  made  sure  he  did  see  it,  for 
she  said  to  him  as  she  rose :  "  Isn't  it  unhealthy  in  those 
parts?" 

He  ranged  himself  on  her  side  so  that  Emmie  was 
between  him  and  Aunt  Sophia. 

"  Not  if  you  take  care,"  he  said.  And  he  then  began 
to  talk  of  his  travels.  He  did  it  easily  and  not  at  all 
like  a  lecturer.  He  would  be  reminded  as  it  were  of 
places  and  incidents  and  anecdotes  and  Mrs.  Grass  kept 
saying  to  herself,  "  What  a  charming  man !  What  de- 
lightful talks !" 

And  Emmie  looked  at  him  critically  —  boots,  neat  and 
smart,  patent  with  brown  tops,  a  black  lounge  coat  with 
grey  trousers,  a  black  tie,  fine  pearl  pin,  straw  hat,  gold 
ring  on  little  finger  —  seal  ring,  gold  headed  cane.  .  .  . 
What  was  he?  Travelled  on  business  as  far  as  Aus- 
tralia. .  .  .  Been  there  three  or  four  times.  .  .  . 

If  Aunt  Sophia  weren't  here  and  she  —  Emmie  — were 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  285 

alone  with  him.  .  .  .  Well,  she  was  amazed  at  her  own 
ideas!  What  in  the  world  possessed  her? 

Was  it  the  sea-air,  or  the  change  ...  or  the  sight  of 
all  those  young  men  and  girls  walking  with  or  after 
one  another?  There  was  no  denying  that  the  sea-side 
attracted  the  sexes.  Emmie  saw  the  pleasure  on  the 
faces  of  men  and  maidens.  She  saw  the  eagerness  on 
others.  It  was  one  great  stream  of  sex  attraction  save 
for  the  too  young  or  too  old,  or  the  married:  and  even 
some  of  the  married.  .  .  . 

Emmie  said  to  herself  she  hadn't  felt  like  this  since 
Tim  died.  Was  this  man  no  more  interested  in  her  than 
in  any  other  woman  he  could  talk  to  in  Blackpool  ?  Was 
she  imagining  things  ?  .  .  . 

And  she  heard  him  saying : 

"  Yes.  I've  been  days  sometimes  without  speaking  to 
a  soul  —  having  a  chat  that  is." 

Mrs.  Grass  sympathised. 

Emmie  said  daringly :  "  And  I  should  think  you  like 
talking." 

Mrs.  Grass  said :     "  Emmie !  " 

The  gentleman  laughed. 

"  Am  I  talking  too  much  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Emmie  quietly.  "  I  only  thought 
you  er  —  well,  you  talked  very  well." 

"  Flatterer,"  he  said,  giving  her  a  look  with  his  bold 
blue  eyes. 

"  I  don't  flatter,"  said  Emmie  quietly,  trying  to  stare 
at  him  coldly,  but  her  eyes  had  fire  in  them  and  she  had 
a  most  captivating  way  of  using  them  that  a  little  neglect 
had  not  wholly  smothered. 

"  Then  I  am  even  more  honoured  than  I  thought,"  he 
said. 

They  strolled  up  and  down  the  pier,  keeping  a  slow 


286  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

even  step  like  the  rest  of  the  promenaders.  After  a 
while  Mrs.  Grass  said :  "  Isn't  it  time  to  go  in?  " 

"  Getting  tired  ?  "  asked  Emmie. 

"  No.  No !  "  said  Mrs.  Grass,  who  did  not  wish  to 
mark  age  like  that,  but  was  tired  all  the  same.  "  But  it 
doesn't  do  to  overdo  it  the  first  day.  Don't  let  us  take 
you  back  Mr.  .  .  ." 

"Tame.  T-A-M-E,"  he  said.  "Oh!  if  you  don't 
mind  I'll  go  back  with  you.  I  only  came  for  a  little 
stroll." 

So  they  turned  back  together. 

When  Emmie  was  alone  in  her  room  that  night  she 
locked  the  door  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 

Tame  .  .  .  T-A-M-E  ...  It  was  queer,  she  thought. 

Now  what  —  well,  she  was  surely  good  enough  look- 
ing to  attract  a  man.  She  was  well  dressed  (well-to-do 
also  for  that  matter),  and  well  favoured  even  though  she 
herself  said  it. 

He  was  a  gentleman,  too.  .  .  .  Suppose  he  ...  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  her.  .  .  .  Just  suppose  it  ...  well,  why 
not? 

Emmie  bit  her  lip.  Tim  dead  but  three  years.  .  .  . 
Yes,  but  she  was  alive,  and  only  thirty  years  of  age. 
Oh!  what  was  the  good  of  bothering  about  such  things? 
She  had  come  to  Blackpool  for  a  holiday,  and  here  she 
was  .  .  .  yes,  here  she  was  thinking  of  a  man  with  wavy 
hair  —  it  had  a  wave  at  the  side  where  he  brushed  it. 
And  he  had  a  fine  nose  and  chin.  And  he  was  well  set 
up,  too  ...  he  could  take  a  woman  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 

She  took  her  hat  off,  gave  it  a  little  shake,  and  then 
began  to  undress. 

When  she  let  her  hair  down  and  began  to  brush  it 
she  said  to  herself:  And  why  shouldn't  I  marry  again 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  287 

if  I  want  to?  I  ...  I  ...  she  presses  her  lips  to- 
gether tightly  as  if  she  were  struggling  with  herself. 
She  stood  up  in  front  of  the  glass  and  let  her  hair  hang 
over  her  shoulders.  It  fell  on  her  breast  and  Emmie 
looked  superlatively  hungry  for  life.  The  blood  was 
coursing  warm  through  her  veins. 

Why  shouldn't  I  marry  again  if  I  want  to?  she  asked 
herself.  She  threw  her  hair  back  and  shook  her  head 
.  .  .  she  noticed  how  finely  her  neck  was  moulded  to  her 
head  and  chest.  Her  figure  was  excellent.  At  thirty  — 
yes,  why  should  she  not  marry  again  if  she  wished? 

She  was  perhaps  thinking  of  a  lot  of  nonsense  but 
Mr.  Tame  with  those  blue  eyes.  .  .  .  Her  breast  heaved. 
She  took  up  the  brush  again  and  used  it  vigorously  on 
her  hair. 

Marry  again,  and  the  man  had  not  even  said  a  word. 
She  had  only  seen  him  for  the  first  time  a  few  hours 
ago;  it  was  preposterous.  ...  It  was  nothing  of  the 
kind,  something  inside  her  said.  What  was  the  good  of 
arguing  about  this  and  that  and  talking  about  only  hav- 
ing seen  him  a  few  hours  when  she  felt  things?  You 
couldn't  argue  that  away  if  you  talked  till  you  were  blue 
in  the  face.  That  look  in  his  eyes  .  .  .  but  it  was  non- 
sense in  a  way  all  the  same.  .  .  . 

Emmie  banished  him  from  her  fancy  for  the  moment. 
She  undressed,  jumped  into  bed,  tucked  the  clothes  all 
round  her  —  and  began  to  see  the  face  of  Mr.  Tame 
again  and  to  hear  his  voice.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  when  she  got  up,  Emmie  was  at  first 
inclined  to  say  to  herself  she  had  been  very  silly  the 
night  before,  imagining  such  things.  .  .  .  Lots  of  women 
fancied  things  if  a  man  looked  at  them  and  felt  all  the 
time  it  wasn't  mere  fancy,  it  was  something  .  .  .  they 


288  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

knew  .  .  .  other  people  would  probably  scoff,  but  they 
knew  —  and  it  turned  out  to  be  sheer  nonsense ! 

And  Emmie  said  to  herself  she  was  not  going  to  be 
like  that.  All  the  same  she  felt  she  knew.  .  .  . 

She  had  sufficient  self  control,  however,  to  be  able 
to  think  coldly  of  things.  She  effectively  thrust  Mr. 
Tame  from  her  thoughts  while  she  dressed  (which  she 
did  carefully)  and  while  she  visited  the  children. 

Tim  and  Alice  were  both  dressed  and  Ada  was  also 
looking  very  clean  and  smart,  having,  under  Emmie's 
guidance,  provided  herself  with  clean  blouses  for  the 
holiday  as  well  as  new  boots  and  skirt. 

Tim  shouted  that  he  was  going  on  the  sands  after 
breakfast  and  Emmie  said  he  should  go  immediately 
after  and  Alice  added,  "  'mejatly  after  breakfast."  They 
all  looked  very  well  and  Emmie  felt  rather  proud  of  her 
family.  Tim  in  his  sailor  suit  stood  up  well  and  was 
a  manly  little  fellow,  while  Alice  gave  promise  of  in- 
heriting her  mother's  beauty,  and  always  attracted  at- 
tention with  her  striking  colouring. 

Emmie  went  downstairs  with  the  children  and  saw 
groups  of  "  guests  "  standing  or  sitting  about  the  hall 
and  the  lounge,  while  some  were  walking  outside,  breath- 
ing in  the  fresh  sea  air  and  hoping  to  do  full  duty  to  the 
breakfast,  for  which  they  rather  impatiently  waited. 

Emmie  created  an  impression  amongst  these  waiting 
people  the  moment  she  appeared.  Some  of  the  wrinkled 
men  continued  to  read  their  papers,  but  the  women  were 
all  alert.  Feminine  beauty  has  its  attraction  for  women 
of  any  age,  and  this  striking  brunette  with  the  beauti- 
fully rounded  face  and  fine  figure  caught  their  attention 
at  once. 

The  men  noted  her,  too,  but  they  could  not  be  so  per- 
sistently curious  and  critical  as  the  ladies.  Theirs  was 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  289 

a  sort  of  "  Fine  woman !  "  and  a  resumption  of  the  paper. 
The  women  looked  Emmie  up  and  down  from  hair  to 
heel.  They  looked  to  see  if  her  hair  was  false  or  dyed 
or  her  bust  was  padded  —  and  to  enjoy  her  beauty. 

Mr.  Tame  came  from  somewhere,  Emmie  didn't  know 
where.  She  was  standing  at  the  door,  hatless,  in  a 
white  blouse  with  bits  of  red  shot  in  round  the  neck  and 
the  wristbands  and  down  the  front,  and  a  dark  blue  skirt. 
Tim  and  Alice  in  sailor  suits  stood  beside  her  and  looked 
out  on  the  sea  whose  waves  broke  upon  the  beach 
in  front  of  them  and  sent  up  its  note  of  restless  ar- 
dour. 

Mr.  Tame  had  no  hat  on  but  was  dressed  in  knickers  — 
a  brown  suit,  showing  his  shapely  legs  and  figure  to  ad- 
vantage. 

Emmie  was  pleased  to  be  noticed,  especially  by  this 
handsome  man  and  before  those  gazing  feminine  eyes, 
too. 

He  smiled  and  nodded. 

"  The  children  are  evidently  going  to  make  the  most 
of  it,"  he  said,  and  turning  to  Alice  he  touched  her  cheek 
and  asked  in  a  wonderful  whisper :  "  Going  to  dig  for 
gold?" 

Alice  screwed  herself  up  and  smiled.  Digging  for 
gold  ...  it  was  like  digging  for  fairies. 

Tim  pushed  forward. 

"  Can  we?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Dig  for  gold?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  can  dig,  but,"  he  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  think 
you'll  get  any  here  —  by  digging  at  any  rate." 

"  We're  going  to  make  a  castle,"  said  Tim. 

"  Yes,  an'  put  water  in  it,"  said  Alice. 

"  Mother  going  to  dig,  too  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  at 


290  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Emmie  who  found  herself  clearly  caught  interested  in 
his  person. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  dig,"  she  said,  "  but  I  am  go- 
ing on  the  sands  with  them." 

He  volunteered  the  information  that  he  was  going 
to  play  golf,  had  a  match  fixed  up  with  a  man.  .  .  . 
Emmie  associated  golf  with  knickers  or  a  red  coat  and 
knew  little  else  about  it  for  there  were  no  links  at  Gan- 
ton  then  and  none  of  her  friends  seemed  to  be  votaries 
of  the  game.  The  Bookes  followed  cricket  and  football 
and  played  bowls. 

Mrs.  Grass  came  down.  She  nodded  to  Emmie  — 
there  was  no  special  greeting  and  nodded  a  trifle  more 
elaborately  to  Mr.  Tame. 

"  I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  late,"  she  said. 

"  They  give  us  a  little  license  in  the  morning,"  he  re- 
plied. 

As  the  two  spoke  Emmie  felt  he  is  talking  here  for 
my  sake.  ...  I  wonder  what  it  means.  ...  I  wish  I 
knew  a  lot  more  about  him.  .  .  . 

Then  the  gong  went  for  breakfast  and  everybody 
seemed  relieved  and  pleased  and  tried  not  to  appear  too 
anxious  to  dash  towards  the  dining  room  till  a  few 
callous  creatures  went  ahead  and  then  there  was  almost 
a  crush  to  the  doorway. 

Mrs.  Grass  and  Emmie  and  the  children  quite  enjoyed 
the  breakfast:  they  looked  round  a  good  deal  to  glance 
at  people  and  Emmie  was  not  sure  whether  she  was  glad 
or  sorry  she  could  not  see  Mr.  Tame.  He  could  see 
her,  but  she  had  to  turn  round  to  see  him  and  when  she 
did  turn  round  once  their  eyes  met  and  she  turned  quickly 
towards  her  own  table  and  did  not  try  to  see  him  again 
during  that  meal. 

After  breakfast  when  she  was  dressed  and  ready  to  go 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  291 

with  Ada  and  the  children  and  waited  for  Mrs.  Grass, 
Mr.  Tame  came  out  carrying  on  his  back  a  —  to  Emmie 
—  curious  leather  bag  with  odd  looking  things  inside, 
"  what  one  played  golf  with,"  Emmie  imagined. 

He  raised  his  hat. 

"  Won't  you  wish  me  luck  ?  "  he  said  as  he  was  pass- 
ing. 

Emmie  hesitated.  This  gentleman  had  a  superb  way 
with  him.  "  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  trying  to  treat  the  re- 
quest as  of  no  more  than  a  polite  phrase.  "  I  don't  know 
that  it  will  do  you  any  good  though." 

"  One  never  knows,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "  I 
have  to  give  him  a  couple  of  strokes,  but  I'll  try  to  bring 
back  his  scalp  now  you  back  me.  I  hope  you'll  build  a 
gorgeous  castle  on  the  sands  and  defy  the  sea  and  all 
its  waves."  He  stroked  Tim's  face.  "  And  what  are 
you  going  to  do?  "  he  bent  down  before  Alice. 

"  Dig,"  she  said  quickly. 

He  looked  very  solemn. 

"  Dig  a  great  big  hole  and  then  get  the  sea  in  your 
bucket  and  pour  it  in  —  then  we  shall  be  able  to  walk 
to  America." 

He  kissed  her. 

Alice  looked  amazed  —  not  at  the  kiss,  but  at  the  idea 
of  putting  the  sea  in  a  hole  so  that  she  could  walk  to 
America  .  .  .  wouldn't  that  be  splendid?  .  .  . 

Mr.  Tame  smiled  at  Emmie,  not  with  any  particular 
message  —  just  pleasantly,  but  very  pleasantly,  turned 
and  walked  away. 

Emmie  caught  herself  watching  him  walk  along  the 
promenade  for  quite  a  long  distance.  What  a  fine,  hand- 
some man  he  was !  .  .  . 

Alice  said :  "  Mammy,  can  I  put  the  sea  in  a  hole  and 
then  we  can  walk  to  America? " 


292  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  No,  silly,"  said  Tim  quickly. 

Alice  looked  hurt. 

"  The  gentleman  said  it,"  she  retorted  defensively. 

"  You  can't  put  the  sea  in  a  hole  —  you  can't  at  any 
rate.  Look  what  a  lot  there  is.  And  besides  it  runs  out 
as  fast  as  you  put  it  in  when  the  hole's  full,  doesn't  it, 
Mother  ?  ...  Is  America  far,  Mother  ?  " 

"  Too  far  to  walk  to,  dear,"  said  Emmie,  thinking  of 
Mr.  Tame's  delightful  fancies.  How  charming  in  an 
easy  quiet  way  he  was  with  the  children ! 

Till  lunch  Emmie  sat  on  the  sands  with  Aunt  Sophia, 
while  the  children  dug  and  Ada  assisted  and  watched. 

Mrs.  Grass  and  Emmie  discussed  all  kinds  of  topics, 
including  Mr.  Tame.  Mrs.  Grass  liked  the  look  of  Mr. 
Tame  but  was  just  a  trifle  curious  about  his  clear  inter- 
est in  them:  he  had  talked  to  them  after  dinner  last 
night,  joined  them  on  the  pier  (after  encouraging  them 
to  go  there.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Grass  nodded  her  head  signifi- 
cantly as  she  thought  of  this,  considering  too,  she  was 
really  very  smart  and  shrewd  to  have  noted  it  all  ... 
but  told  herself  approvingly  she  was  no  fool  .  .  .)  and 
been  pleasant  and  affable  again  this  morning.  What 
did  it  mean?  Just  pleasantness?  or  Emmie?  .  .  . 
Emmie  .  .  .  The  idea  was  disturbing.  Did  Emmie  no- 
tice the  gentleman?  Would  she?  And  if  she  did 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Grass  was  not  altogether  at  rest  as  she  thought 
of  this.  She  was  perturbed.  She  was  not  jealous,  but 
there  was  something  about  the  idea  that  displeased  her 
faintly. 

She  tried  bait. 

"  Very  nice  gentleman  that  Mr.  Tame,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Emmie,  going  on  with  her  crocheting 
so  that  Aunt  Sophia  tried  a  glance  at  her  face  and  gleaned 
nothing  reliable. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  293 

"  Very  polite,  isn't  he  ?  You  can  tell  he  doesn't  come 
from  about  here  or  else  he's  travelled  a  lot." 

Emmie  paused. 

"  He  has  travelled,"  she  said,  not  wishing  to  be  too 
indifferent  or  too  self-conscious. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  does  now  ?  .  .  .  Some  of  those 
smooth-tongued  people  .  .  ."  she  shook  her  head.  She 
really  felt  she  ought  to  utter  a  word  of  warning  for, 
after  all,  "  you  never  knew."  "  And  I  expect  queer  peo- 
ple get  into  these  boarding-houses  at  times." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Emmie.  "  Rum  lot  some  of  'em  I'll 
bet."  It  was  uttered  jovially  as  if  Emmie  would  cover 
up  her  thoughts  with  dashingness. 

Aunt  Sophia  was  a  little  reassured. 

Emmie  thought:  Trying  to  probe  me,  Auntie  .  .  . 
You  won't  get  much  out  of  me. 

And  she  went  on  with  her  fine  crocheting  as  if  she 
were  thinking  of  nothing  so  seriously  as  of  that  at  pres- 
ent. She  held  it  out  in  her  hand  and  gazed  at  it. 

Aunt  Sophia  looked  at  it.  "  Very  nice,  Emmie.  .  .  . 
What  is  it,  a  doyley  ?  " 

"  No.     It's  a  collar  for  Alice." 

"  Very  pretty." 

Aunt  Sophia  found  it  difficult  to  return  to  the  subject 
of  Mr.  Tame  without  exciting  suspicion. 

The  sun  warmed  them,  the  gentle  breeze  that  blew  over 
the  sea  soothed  and  invigorated  them :  they  got  sand  in 
and  about  their  clothes  but  they  were  satisfied  at  lunch 
time  they  had  behaved  quite  well  and  done  their  duty 
to  the  children,  to  themselves,  to  the  holiday  and  to  the 
sea,  and  as  they -walked  back  to  "  The  Towers  "  Emmie 
was  thinking  of  a  man  in  a  brown  suit  with  shapely  legs 
and  saying  to  herself,  "  I  wonder  if  he  will  be  back  for 
lunch. 


294  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Mr.  Tame  was  not  in  for  lunch,  but  he  was  there  for 
tea. 

Emmie  caught  sight  of  him  as  she  entered  the  lounge 
where  tea  was  served.  She  heard  him  say  ..."  good 
links  like  most  of  these  sand  courses  "  and  didn't  under- 
stand. He  turned  as  she  came  in  almost  as  if  he  were 
expecting  some  one  and  smiled  quietly.  He  seemed  to 
drift  towards  her,  for  his  coming  to  her  was  not  osten- 
tatious. 

"  Did  you  have  a  good  dig  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye. 

"  The  family  did,"  said  Emmie.  "  Did  you  have  any 
luck?" 

"  Three  up  and  one.  ...  I  knew  you'd  give  me  luck," 
he  added  in  a  lower  note  —  a  more  confidential  one. 

Emmie  was  calm. 

"  I  don't  know  what  three  up  and  one  means :  it  sounds 
like  a  riddle." 

He  laughed. 

"  By  the  by,"  he  said.  "  They  are  playing  '  The  Pris- 
oner of  Zenda '  at  the  theatre  to-night.  I  can  get  a 
couple  of  tickets.  Would  you  care  to  go,  Mrs.  Booke?  " 

Emmie  hesitated.  A  couple  of  tickets  .  .  .  did  he 
mean  for  himself  and  her?  or  for  Aunt  Sophia  and  her? 
And  Mrs.  Booke  —  he's  got  her  name,  too,  for  when  he 
told  them  his  last  night  he  had  not  asked  theirs,  nor  had 
they  volunteered  the  information. 

She  looked  willingness. 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  ."  she  said.  "  I  am  with  my  aunt. 
I  don't  care  about  leaving  her." 

He  was  eyeing  her  in  tell-tale  fashion. 

Emmie  felt  the  something-not-to-be-easily-defined  be- 
hind the  looks,  but  was  calm. 

"  She  wouldn't  mind,"  he  suggested. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  295 

Emmie  hesitated  between  desire  and  a  host  of  other 
things  —  prudence ;  it  didn't  do  to  be  too  eager,  rash 
even :  and  what  would  Aunt  Sophia  say  ?  and,  er.  .  .  . 

"  We've  only  just  come :  it  seems  a  pity  to  leave  her  the 
first  day.  Thank  you  very  much,  and  it's  very  kind  of 
you." 

"  Not  at  all.  Suppose  I  got  three  tickets  —  I  could  get 
another  I  think,  would  you  and  your  aunt  come?  I  can 
easily  get  another." 

Emmie  said  something  about  him  being  very  kind 
and  taking  all  that  trouble  and  er  .  .  .  when  Mrs.  Grass 
joined  them. 

Mr.  Tame  turned  to  her  at  once. 

"  The  very  lady,"  he  said  cheerily.  "  I  can  get  three 
tickets  for  the  theatre  to-night  —  it's  *  The  Prisoner  of 
Zenda,'  and  I  was  just  asking  Mrs.  Booke  if  you  and  she 
would  care  to  go." 

Mrs.  Grass  looked  agreeably  surprised  and  yet  hesi- 
tated. She  could  not  accept  an  invitation  like  that  with- 
out some  show  of  embarrassment.  She  turned  to  Emmie 
and  a  good  many  thoughts  flitted  through  her  mind. 

Emmie  was  obviously  for  yes.     Mrs.  Grass  saw  that. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Tame,"  she  muttered.  "  I 
don't  know  .  .  ."  She  was  slowly  trying  to  make  up 
her  mind  and  wished  she  could  have  talked  over  the  in- 
vitation with  Emmie  for  five  minutes. 

"  It  is  no  kindness  on  my  part.  ...  I  think  you'll  like 
it.  The  piece  has  been  a  great  success  in  London  — 
George  Alexander  produced  it."  He  talked  as  if  they 
had  agreed  to  go  and  both  Emmie  and  Aunt  Sophia  felt 
they  could  not  now  refuse.  They  were  definitely  booked 
to  go  to  the  theatre  with  this  attractive  gentleman,  and 
both  of  them  were  finding  reasons  why  he  had  asked 
them. 


296  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Mrs.  Grass  said  to  Emmie  when  they  were  together 
in  her  room :  "  Mr.  Tame  has  taken  a  fancy  to  one 
of  us." 

"  Perhaps  it's  both  of  us,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Not  much,"  retorted  Mrs.  Grass.  "  But  don't  you 
let  him  go  too  far,  Emmie :  you've  got  two  children,  you 
know." 

"Oh!  I  can  take  care  of  myself,"  said  Emmie  with 
a  laugh,  for  she  did  not  want  to  argue  with  Aunt  Sophia. 

"  He's  a  dangerous  man  is  that  Mr.  Tame,  one  of  those 
fascinating  men,  you  know.  I  wonder  if  we  really  ought 
to  go.  I'm  half  sorry  we  let  him  think  we'd  go." 

Emmie  laughed.  Her  spirits  Were  high,  though  she 
checked  the  outpouring  of  them. 

"  What  else  could  you  do  ?  He  won't  eat  us,  and  you 
know  you'll  enjoy  the  piece." 

"  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  but  I'm  thinking  of  something  else. 
.  .  .  How  long  has  Tim  been  dead,  Emmie  —  two  years, 
is  it?" 

"  Three  —  over  three,"  said  Emmie. 

"  How  time  flies !    It  didn't  seem  so  long  as  that  to 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  Emmie  was  in  her  room  at  night  after  the 
theatre  she  was  disturbed  with  many  thoughts. 
The  play  had  been  most  enjoyable,  but  Mr.  Tame  dom- 
inated Black  Michael  and  Rudolph  Rassendall.  He  had 
in  general  behaved  charmingly,  but  there  was  more  than 
ordinary  or  even  extraordinary  courtesy  in  his  behaviour, 
courtesy  was  not  the  word.  Those  looks  he  gave  her. 
.  .  .  Emmie  caught  him  once  or  twice  looking  at  her 
and  he  boldly  continued.  He  managed  to  invest  his 
gaze  with  homage.  Emmie  knew  what  it  meant  and  so 
thoroughly  enjoyed  it  that  she  delayed  overlong  in  try- 
ing to  make  it  a  matter  of  indifference  by  whispering, 
"  A  splendid  play,  isn't  it?  " 

He  just  nodded,  managing  in  rather  a  clever  fashion 
to  let  her  see  quite  plainly  that  for  him  there  were  other 
splendours  beside  plays. 

And  now  Emmie  in  her  room,  luxuriated  in  the  power 
she  possessed  to  influence  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Tame.  It 
made  her  very  glad.  She  was  a  widow  with  two  chil- 
dren, and  the  moment  she  appeared  before  this  man  — 
and  he  was  no  insignificant  person  either  —  he  seemed 
to  have  .  .  .  fallen  in  love  with  her.  Was  he  in  love 
with  her? 

Emmie  looked  at  herself.  Not  a  grey  hair  —  not  one, 
black  through  and  through  and  plenty  of  it,  too.  .  .  . 
She  had  no  need  of  pads  and  transformations  and  buns. 
And  those  eyes  were  all  right  —  nothing  the  matter  with 
them  ...  or  the  lashes  .  .  .  and  the  rest  of  the  face 
.  ,  .  and  there  was  something  behind  the  face,  too. 

297 


298  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Suppose  he  was  really  in  love  with  her.  .  .  .  What 
should  she  do?  Did  she  want  to  marry  again? 

She  clasped  her  hands.  Why  not?  She  was  young 
enough.  What  was  thirty?  If  Tim  could  have  given 
her  a  message,  she  knew  he  would  have  told  her  to  marry 
again  if  she  wished.  It  was  absurd  to  think  she  must 
never  have  anything  to  do  with  a  man  again  just  be- 
cause she  had  had  a  husband  for  six  years.  She  was  a 
jolly  sight  fitter  for  marriage  than  some  of  these  mad- 
cap, scraggy  creatures  she  saw  walking  about  hunting 
for  husbands.  .  .  . 

A  man  beside  her  again.  .  .  .  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell. 
And  what  would  people  in  Canton  say  if  she  married 
again?  The  Bookes.  .  .  .  Well,  even  Aunt  Sophia 
would  raise  up  her  hands  against  it.  ...  There  were  the 
children.  .  .  .  The  children  counted.  Tim  and  Alice 
must  be  thought  of.  In  any  case  she  would  never  marry 
any  man  who  wouldn't  be  good  to  them. 

She  began  to  undress. 

But  he  was  a  nice  man,  those  eyes  of  his,  and  his  voice. 
.  .  .  She  sighed.  A  man  like  that  could  marry  almost 
any  woman,  and  he  looked  at  her. 

Did  he  mean  it  really  ?  ...  It  would  be  lovely  to  have 
a  man  beside  her  again.  Some  one  she  could  look  after 
and  who  would  be  a  regular  man  and  make  her  proud 
of  him,  a  gentleman.  He  would  have  to  be  a  gentleman 
or  somebody  out  of  the  common  this  time. 

But  it  would  probably  all  end  in  nothing.  She  didn't 
suppose  she'd  marry  again.  .  .  .  The  children  in  any  case 
must  be  thought  of.  ...  But  coming  to  that  place  and 
almost  at  once  the  most  distinguished  gentleman  in  the 
house  made  up  to  her.  .  .  .  She  felt  superlatively  pleased. 
She  wanted  all  her  women  friends  to  know.  If  she  did 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  299 

marry  again  —  and  a  gentleman  too  —  they  would  stare 
in  Canton. 

When  she  came  down  to  breakfast  the  following  morn- 
ing she  saw  Mr.  Tame  talking  to  the  children  again. 
Her  heart  beat  a  little  faster.  The  picture  seemed  an 
omen.  He  came  towards  her,  Tim  on  one  side  and  Alice 
on  the  other,  with  almost  a  challenging  air.  It  was 
as  if  he  said,  "Well  how  do  you  like  the  idea?  Don't 
we  look  a  happy  family  ?  " 

Emmie  thought  him  very  handsome  this  morning  and 
his  smile  had  a  peculiarly  intimate  and  steady  expression 
in  it. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  you  feel  no  worse 
for  your  dissipation  last  night." 

"  I  didn't  know  I  was  dissipated,"  she  said.  "  In  any 
case  I  feel  no  worse  for  it." 

"  That's  reassuring.  I  have  just  been  invited  by  your 
son  to  visit  your  hat  works." 

Emmie  turned  her  gaze  from  Mr.  Tame  to  Tim.  If 
he  came  to  Canton  .  .  . 

"  The  mother,"  he  said  quietly,  "  does  not  endorse  the 
invitation." 

"  I  do,"  said  Emmie  quickly  but  quietly,  "  if  you'd 
like  to  see  over  a  hat  works  you  can  see  over  mine  with 
pleasure." 

"  It  would  be  a  pleasure,"  he  said. 

Emmie  thought  his  tone  dangerous.  "  He's  in  love 
with  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  was  thrilled  and  a  little 
frightened.  His  tone  was  homage. 

"  Come  any  time  you  like,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  you.  ...  I  shall  come,"  he  said,  managing 
to  import  into  the  speech  a  fine  wealth  of  suggestion. 


300  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Then,  as  if  he  had  delivered  a  message,  he  turned  to  the 
children  who  held  his  hands  confidently. 

"  Going  to  dig  a  tunnel  from  here  to  Ireland  to-day?  " 
he  asked. 

Alice  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"  A  tunnel !  "  she  replied,  thinking  of  the  dash  of  a  train 
in  a  dark  hole. 

Tim  said,  "  We  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"  We  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Well,  we  can't." 

Emmie  laughed. 

"  So  that  ends  it,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Tame. 

"  The  Channel  scheme  wrecked,"  he  said.  "  Are  you 
going  to  sit  on  the  sand  again  this  morning  and  listen  to 
what  the  wild  waves  are  saying?  " 

"  Probably.  I  haven't  seen  my  aunt  yet.  If  not  the 
sands  it  will  be  somewhere  else." 

"Have  you  ever  killed  an  elephant?"  Tim  suddenly 
asked. 

"  No,  but  I've  ridden  on  one." 

"Have  you?" 

"  Ridden  on  an  elephant's  back?  "  asked  Alice. 

He  nodded  "  Urn." 

"Where?"  asked  Tim. 

"  At  Belle  Vue." 

Tim  and  Alice  emitted  sounds  of  disgust  and  Tim 
actually  thumped  him.  Emmie  smiled.  She  felt  very 
comfortable  with  him  somehow  and  allowed  herself  to 
think  of  them  as  a  family  group.  .  .  . 

"  Are  you  going  to  make  a  long  stay  here?  "  he  asked. 

"  About  a  fortnight." 

"  Providence  is  kind,"  he  said. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  301 

Emmie  hesitated  but  could  not  resist  the  "  Why." 

"  I  hope  to  stay  about  another  fortnight  myself,"  he 
said. 

And  then  Emmie  shot  at  him  one  of  those  probing, 
most  alluring  glances  as  if,  when  it  was  a  matter  of  sex, 
she  had  to  use  her  eyes  in  this  particular  way. 

He  looked  at  her  keenly,  and  understood  her. 

He  was  rather  quick  to  read  women  in  certain  direc- 
tions. 

Then  Aunt  Sophia  came  and  of  course  noted  Mr.  Tame 
and  Emmie,  the  looks  on  their  faces  and  the  attitudes  of 
the  children. 

"  Waiting  for  the  gong,"  she  said,  but  at  once  added 
to  Emmie,  "  Your  Aunt  Jane  and  Aunt  Maria  will  be 
here  to-day.  I've  just  had  a  letter." 

Emmie  said,  "  Oh,  what  time  ?  " 

And  Mr.  Tame  wondered  if  Aunt  Jane  and  Aunt  Maria 
would  be  of  any  use  to  him. 

He  managed  to  get  near  to  Emmie  after  breakfast 
and  somehow  the  conversation  slipped  from  the  weather 
and  Blackpool  and  visitors  and  things  in  general  to  per- 
sonal affairs.  So  she  had  a  hat  factory  .  .  .  rather  re- 
markable for  a  lady  and  one  so  young  and  beautiful  .  .  . 
to  be  the  head  of  a  big  business. 

He  looked  at  her  with  sincerity  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke, 
and  let  her  see  he  was  not  employing  his  pleasing  phrases 
as  mere  flattery. 

At  least,  that  was  how  Emmie  took  them,  though  the 
average  woman  on  being  told  she  is  beautiful  if  she 
is  reasonably  good-looking  will  invariably  take  the  re- 
mark as  a  frank  spontaneous  expression  of  honest  feel- 
ing. 

And  she  explained  how  it  was  she  was  the  possessor  of 
T.  Booke  &  Son  —  not  telling  she  had  been  a  trimmer, 


302  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

merely  that  her  husband  had  died  and  left  her  every- 
thing. 

He  said  she  was  an  amazing  woman,  talked  of  her  pluck 
in  keeping  an  eye  on  the  business,  instead  of  getting  rid 
of  it  or  leaving  it  entirely  in  somebody  else's  hands. 

He  talked  of  himself  a  little.  He  had  travelled  for 
firms  whose  names  were  household  words  and  had  now 
a  fine  knowledge  of  the  East  and  its  markets,  and  hoped 
to  set  up  with  another  man  as  a  merchant:  there  were 
thousands  to  be  made  out  of  the  Eastern  trade  if  it  were 
only  tackled  by  the  right  people  in  the  right  way. 

He  wanted  to  stay  at  home  now  and  let  others  do  the 
travelling.  It  was  time  he  settled  down.  He  felt  that 
more  and  more  every  day.  He  wanted  a  nice  home  and 
a  wife.  .  .  . 

They  were  now  strolling  along  the  front,  for  he  had 
lured  her  to  the  gate  and  deftly  led  her  on  to  the  prom- 
enade. 

As  he  talked  of  a  wife  Emmie  said  to  herself,  "  Good 
gracious!  I  hope  he's  not  going  to  propose  here."  She 
was  excited  and  while  thoroughly  enjoying  his  attitude, 
yet  did  not  wish  to  be  made  uncomfortable. 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  find  your  chance  here  with  all 
these  eligible  girls  about,"  said  Emmie. 

He  looked  at  her. 

"  I  think  that's  true,"  he  said.  "  There  are  certainly 
a  lot  of  very  nice  people  here,"  but  he  looked  at  her  as  if 
that  was  not  the  thing  that  was  in  his  mind. 

Emmie  suddenly  turned. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  she  said.  "  They'll  wonder  what 
has  become  of  me." 

He  touched  her  arm. 

"  Does  it  matter?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes." 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  303 

"  You  are  always  with  your  aunt,"  he  said  it  as  a  pleas- 
ant reproach. 

"  Well,  I  came  with  her." 

"  That's  not  a  reason  —  Wouldn't  you  care  to  go  a 
little  excursion  with  me  some  afternoon?" 

She  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  know.  ...  I  have  the  children  and  cr  .  .  ." 

"  Your  aunt,"  he  said. 

She  laughed. 

"  Well,  I  can't  leave  her  alone." 

"  And  now  I  overheard  —  I  couldn't  help  it  —  that 
more  aunts  are  arriving :  will  that  liberate  you  a  little,  or 
shall  you  be  bound  with  still  greener  withs  ?  " 

Emmie  did  not  understand  the  allusion  to  withs  but 
grasped  the  sense. 

"I  don't  know.  ...  If  you  want  a  companion  you'll 
have  no  difficulty  in  finding  one,"  she  said,  as  if  she  would 
exploit  the  situation  just  a  little. 

"  No,"  he  said  calmly.  "  If  I  only  wanted  a  com- 
panion I  don't  think  I  should  find  any  difficulty." 

Emmie  looked  at  him  and  felt  grateful  for  his  attitude. 

She  wanted  to  be  sympathetic,  also  she  wanted  to  go 
on  an  excursion  with  him.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  he 
had  a  real  influence  over  her  and  as  she  saw  couples  in 
the  heyday  of  youth  and  vigour  going  past,  she  felt  de- 
sirous of  being  one  with  them.  She,  too,  was  capable  of 
living  a  full  life  with  a  mate,  why  should  she  be  doomed 
to  everlasting  widowhood? 

And  he  ...  he  was  certainly  out  of  the  common.  .  .  . 

"  You're  very  kind,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can't  promise ; 
it's  difficult,  you  see." 

"  Could  you  manage  a  theatre  ?  Would  you  care  tc 
come?  " 

"I  ...  Suppose  we  leave  it.     My  aunts  will  be  here 


304  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

to-day  and  they  may  want  to  do  things  —  perhaps  in  a 
day  or  two.  .  .  ." 

"  All  right.  I  hope  I  am  not  worrying  you,"  he  took 
her  arm  and  pressed  it  as  he  guided  her  across  the  road. 

She  felt  a  thrill  go  through  her.  A  man's  touch  again. 
.  .  .  Why  should  she  bother  about  her  aunts?  Were 
they  going  to  tell  her  when  she  must  go  to  the  theatre 
and  when  she  mustn't? 

"  Oh !     No,"  she  said.     "  I  must  hurry  back." 

"  Suppose  I  came  and  digged  with  you." 

"  I'm  not  going  to-day." 

"Well,  sewed  then?" 

"  If  you'll  bring  your  sewing  you  can  sit  beside  me," 
she  said,  and  they  both  felt  as  if  they  were  on  really 
good  and  promising  terms  with  each  other. 

Mrs.  Grass  at  the  gate  looked  serious.  She  wondered 
what  was  really  going  on  ...  Emma  and  that  Mr.  Tame 
again.  .  .  .  She  was  glad  Jane  and  Maria  were  coming. 

"  The  children  have  gone,"  she  said,  as  Emmie  entered 
the  house. 

"  Really  I " 

"  My  fault,"  said  Mr.  Tame.  "  I  think  I'd  better  go 
after  them  and  show  them  how  to  dig  a  big  hole  so  that 
all  the  clocks  can  be  efficiently  buried.  I  wonder  what 
we  should  feel  like  if  we  had  no  clocks  or  watches.  ..." 

Mrs.  Grass  thought,  "What  a  talker  he  is!"  She 
said,  "  It  would  be  awkward  about  dinner  time." 

He  laughed  merrily. 

Emmie  said,  "  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute,"  and  ran  up- 
stairs jauntily  for  her  hat  and  sewing. 

As  Aunt  Sophia  and  Emmie  sat  on  the  sands  again 
while  the  children  constructed  castles  and  moats  and 
tunnels  they  both  had  thoughts  they  didn't  think  it  worth 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  305 

while  to  express.  Mrs.  Grass  thought  of  Emmie  and 
Mr.  Tame  and  disapproved.  It  may  have  been  a  little 
jealousy  or  a  regard  for  the  family  or  a  certain  intuition 
that  Jane  and  Maria  would  be  put  out  when  they 
knew!  .  .  . 

Emmie's  principal  thoughts  circled  round  the  question : 
"  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  "  She  would  look  at  Tim  and  Alice 
and  say,  "  They  would  be  no  worse  off  for  a  father  .  .  . 
a  gentleman  too  like  Mr.  Tame.  .  .  .  And  then  she  and 
he  would  fill  the  picture  alone.  Thirty  that  was  all  she 
was  ...  of  course  people  would  talk  and  say  things  — 
they  always  did  and  would,  but  what  did  that  matter? 

When  he  took  her  arm  she  could  have  kissed  him  .  .  . 
and  she  had  money  enough  surely.  .  .  . 

In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  arrived. 

Emmie  and  Mrs.  Grass  went  to  meet  them  and  Emmie 
noted  at  once  something  taut  in  the  atmosphere.  Both 
the  ladies  kissed  her  and  asked  after  the  children,  but 
there  was  something  that  suggested  a  veil  hanging  be- 
tween their  attitudes  and  that  of  frank  cordiality. 

Emmie  said  quickly,  "  Aunt  Sophia's  told  them,  written 
to  them  " —  to  herself  of  course. 

She  felt  a  little  intimidated  and  also  provoked.  The 
three  of  them  had  a  pull  in  the  matter  of  numbers. 

First  there  was  gossip  of  no  value  except  as  a  prelude. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  and  have  you  made  any 
friends?" 

Mrs.  Grass  said,  "  No  —  not  in  a  manner  of  speaking. 
We've  certainly  made  an  impression  on  one  gentleman." 

"  Gentleman  .  .  .  what  .  .  ." 

"  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  say  we  —  I  ought  to  say  Emmie." 

Mrs.  Grass  smiled  at  Emmie  and  nodded  as  if  she  were 
most  innocently  intentioned. 


306  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  There's  always  men  at  a  boarding  house  that  .  .  ." 
Mrs.  Holten  nodded.  "  I  credit  Emmie  with  a  bit  of 
sense  at  any  rate." 

"  I  must  say  he's  behaved  very  nicely,"  said  Mrs.  Grass. 
"  He  took  us  to  the  theatre  one  night." 

"  Took  you  to  the  theatre?  .  .  ." 

"Who  paid?"  asked  Miss  Booke  quickly. 

"  He  did,"  said  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  He  did  .  .  ."  said  Miss  Booke  looking  —  or  endeav- 
ouring to  look  —  agonised. 

Mrs.  Holten  said,  "  Well,  Sophia,  I  don't  know  how 
you  could  accept  something  from  a  stranger  like  that  — 
good  seats  too,  I  expect." 

Emmie  said  to  herself :  "  They  are  talking  like  this 
for  me." 

Mrs.  Grass  assumed  an  apologetic  air :  "  It  sounded 
as  if  he  got  the  tickets  for  nothing,  didn't  it,  Em- 
mie?" 

"  I  thought  he  did." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  it  wasn't  so  bad, 
but  I  don't  believe  in  accepting  favours  from  strangers 
myself,  if  you  don't  know  who  they  are.  .  .  .  It's  very 
risky." 

"  Very  risky,"  added  Miss  Booke  with  heat.  "  A  per- 
fect stranger,  I  suppose  —  till  you  came  here." 

"  I  should  drop  him  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "If 
he  asks  you  as  soon  as  that  to  go  to  a  theatre,  he's  ..." 
she  nodded,  "  well,  it's  not  my  style  to  go  to  the  theatre 
with  the  first  stranger  that  asks  me.  I'd  pay  for  myself 
or  not  go.  And  what's  more,  you  wouldn't  find  me  going 
with  the  first  man  who  came  up  and  asked  me,  boarding- 
house  or  not." 

"  Never  heard  such  a  thing,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

Emmie  felt  her  blood  getting  very  warm. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  307 

Mrs.  Grass  said :  "  It  didn't  seem  as  bad  as  that  when 
he  asked  us,  did  it,  Emmie?  " 

Emmie  smiled,  rather  more  heroically  than  joyfully. 

Mrs.  Holten  was  watching  her  keenly. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  this  man  that's  so  free  with  his 
theatre  tickets  to  ladies  he  hasn't  known  more  than  twenty- 
four  hours,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

Emmie  was  working  her  toes  in  her  shoes  furiously. 
"  Just  imagine  them  making  this  fuss  over  a  visit  to  the 
theatre,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Then  somehow  the  conversation  was  suddenly  switched 
off  to  a  bit  of  Canton  gossip  and  the  talk  was  quite  agree- 
able till  dinner  time.  The  ladies  went  a  little  walk,  for 
when  you  were  at  the  seaside  it  was  your  duty  to  be  out 
in  the  fresh  air  as  much  as  possible. 

At  dinner  Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  eyed  Mr.  Tame 
with  cold,  steely,  penetrating  looks.  He  saw  them  and 
remarked  to  himself  that  he  was  an  object  of  observation, 
and  had  evidently  been  talked  about  and  that  therefore 
he  might  take  hopeful  views.  .  .  . 

After  dinner  he  made  his  way  towards  Emmie  and  Miss 
Booke  who  were  standing  together. 

He  talked  about  an  accident  that  had  happened  to  a 
sailing  boat,  by  which  a  man  had  lost  his  life,  but  Miss 
Booke  refused  to  join  in  the  conversation. 

So  Emmie  introduced  him. 

"  My  aunt,  Miss  Booke  —  Mr.  Tame." 

Miss  Booke's  bow  was  so  dignified  as  to  be  icy. 

He  ventured  an  agreeably  toned  remark  about  the 
weather. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  with  a  cold  snap,  gazing  out  to 
sea. 

Emmie  felt  as  if  a  wave  of  something  frigid  and  then 
hot  rolled  down  her  back. 


308  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Mr.  Tame  seemed  to  ignore  it.  He  turned  to  Emmie 
and  said  quietly :  "  I  wonder  how  many  people  in  the 
course  of  the  year  pass  through  a  place  like  this?  " 

Emmie  felt  very  grateful  to  him  for  taking  the  snub 
so  well.  "  And  what  unexpected  things !  "  he  said. 

Mrs.  Holten  came  up  and  said,  "  I  suppose  you  are 
going  out." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Miss  Booke.  "  Come  along,  Emmie, 
we'll  get  ready."  She  quite  ignored  Mr.  Tame,  who 
smiled  at  Emmie.  "  It's  a  glorious  night,"  he  said. 

Emmie  felt  as  if  she  could  kiss  him.  What  a  gentle- 
man! 

Mrs.  Holten  could  be  tactful  with  her  masterfulness, 
Miss  Booke  could  not.  She  imagined  you  had  to  ham- 
mer away  at  people  if  you  wished  them  to  do  or  not  to 
do  certain  things  —  that  is  how  she  acted :  she  really  had 
no  imagination:  when  she  wanted  a  thing  done  she  sim- 
ply said  so  and  could  delude  herself  with  the  idea  that 
she  was  devoted  to  duty,  was  frankly  honest  and  out- 
spoken and  put  the  welfare  of  others  before  their  regard 
for  her.  Her  emotions  were  quickly  roused  and  as  she 
had  courage  and  vitality  she  was  an  uncomfortable  per- 
son to  have  as  a  friend.  As  an  aunt  Emmie  found  her 
at  times  almost  unbearable. 

Mrs.  Grass  was  companionable  but  could  not  fight  her 
stronger  willed  sisters. 

Emmie  was  always  willing  to  pay  them  some  respect 
for  Tim's  sake.  They  were  his  father's  sisters:  they 
were  Bookes  and  she  had  inherited  T.  Booke  &  Son. 
Besides  she  had  worked  as  a  trimmer  in  the  hat  factory 
and  had  naturally  during  that  time  considered  all  the 
members  of  the  Booke  family  as  persons  of  importance. 
These  early  ideas  were  not  got  rid  of  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye.  Emmie  by  now  could  hold  her  own  but  she 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  309 

could  not  attack  without  some  uneasiness  and  she  gener- 
ally kept  a  firm  hand  on  herself  in  her  dealings  with  Mrs. 
Holten  and  Miss  Booke. 

It  was  quite  in  the  expected  order  of  things  that  Miss 
Booke  having  seen  Mr.  Tame  and  spoken  with  him,  should 
wish  to  say  something  about  him. 

Emmie  felt  Aunt  Maria  was  about  to  burst  forth.  Her 
mouth  twitched,  she  gave  her  head  little  shakes,  she  lost 
her  step  now  and  then  as  they  walked;  she  seemed  to 
exude  a  nervous  aura. 

Mrs.  Holten  and  Mrs.  Grass  were  in  front  and  Miss 
Booke  bottled  up  her  feelings  till  they  could  be  completely 
appreciated  and  well  backed  up. 

They  all  went  on  the  pier:  it  was  cheap,  healthy  and 
pleasant. 

Mrs.  Holten  marched  like  a  leader.  She  could  never 
lose  herself  wholly  in  observation  in  a  crowd  for  every 
now  and  then  she  reminded  herself  that  she  had  a  repu- 
tation or  position  or  something  important  to  keep  up  and 
was  as  deserving  of  observation  as  most  of  them;  and 
then  would  follow  a  noteworthy  stiffening  of  the  body 
and  a  fine,  strong  photographic  expression  on  the  face. 

"  We'll  sit  down  a  bit,"  she  said,  when  they  reached  the 
end  of  the  pier.  They  were  barely  settled  down  in  a 
quiet  corner  when  Miss  Booke  said: 

"  I  suppose  that  was  the  gentleman,  Emmie,  you  intro- 
duced me  to,  who  took  you  to  the  theatre  ?  " 

"  Lord :  she's  at  it,"  said  Emmie  to  herself.  "  Yes," 
she  said  calmly  to  her  aunt. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  him,"  said  Miss  Booke 
quickly  and  confidently,  "  did  you  see  him,  Jane?  " 

Mrs.  Holten  hesitated.  She  did  not  want  Emmie  to 
think  she  had  been  paying  too  much  attention  to  the  gen- 
tleman. 


310  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"Yes,"  she  replied  almost  casually,  but  with  definite- 
ness  for  those  who  knew  her. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  him?  " 

"Oh!  ...  Collar  and  cuffs." 

Emmie  winced:  she  was  being  flagellated  within  the 
meaning  of  the  term  discretion  as  understood  by  her 
aunts. 

"  And  worse.  .  .  .  That  man " —  she  nodded  with 
voluminous  suggestiveness.  "  Well,  I  wouldn't  trust  a 
girl  of  mine  with  him." 

Emmie  kept  silent ;  she  knew  her  own  power  in  a  battle 
royal  and  also  the  advantage  of  the  unspoken  word. 

"Oh — h.  .  .  .  Did  you  think  that,  Maria?"  asked 
Mrs.  Grass  who  had  to  think  of  herself  a  little,  but  wished 
at  this  particular  moment  to  soothe  matters. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  said  it  if  I  didn't,"  said  Miss  Booke 
sharply.  "  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Sophia,  taking  on  with 
a  man  like  that.  Emmie's  younger.  .  .  ." 

"  There's  always  a  danger,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  speaking 
with  authority  and  weight,  "  of  meeting  undesirable  peo- 
ple at  these  boarding  houses.  You  can't  help  it,  of  course, 
and  there  are  nice  people  there  too :  but  then  these,  what 
shall  I  say?  —  these  dangerous  people  come  there  too. 
The  only  thing  is  to  keep  your  eyes  open  and  give  them 
a  wide  berth." 

"  I  should  think  so  indeed,"  added  Miss  Booke.  "  I 
should  give  that  Mr.  Tame,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  a 
wide  enough  berth." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Did  you  hear,  Emmie?  "  asked  Miss  Booke. 

Emmie  feeling  indignant  said  curtly,  "  I  did." 

Mrs.  Holten  looked  at  her  quickly  to  read  her  atti- 
tude. 

Mrs.  Grass  said  to  herself,  "  Oh,  dear  me,  they're  at 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  311 

her  again  —  more  rows  — "  She  just  stirred  on  her  seat 
and  said  nothing. 

Miss  Booke  drew  herself  up  like  a  rattlesnake  that  has 
been  pricked. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  and  I  hope  you'll  take  warning." 

"  I'm  old  enough,"  said  Emmie  tartly,  "  to  take  care 
of  myself  without  warnings." 

"  Oh !  that's  it,  is  it,"  said  Miss  Booke,  signifying 
something  ominous,  subtle  and  vague. 

"  That's  what  ?  "  said  Emmie  quickly,  looking  a  little 
flushed. 

"  I  should  think  you  could  understand  that  without 
asking.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  going  on  carrying 
on  with  that  man " 

"  Carrying  on  with  a  man  ?  "  said  Emmie. 

"Hush!  Sh!  .  .  ."  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "Emmie!" 
she  spoke  authoritatively,  "  don't  talk  so  loud." 

Miss  Booke  sniffed.  "  You  married  well  enough  once," 
she  said;  "  isn't  that  enough  for  you?  " 

Not  talk  so  loud  —  Emmie  wanted  to  shriek.  Words 
would  only  come  in  a  volume  in  reply  to  this. 

"  Well !  "  she  trembled  and  was  on  the  brink  of  tears. 

"  Oh !  let's  be  quiet  now  —  in  this  place,"  said  Mrs. 
Grass,  looking  round  anxiously  to  see  if  they  were  ob- 
served at  all. 

Miss  Booke  had  the  attitude  of  the  austere  creature 
who  must  do  her  duty  regardless  of  time,  place,  circum- 
stance and  almost  any  mundane  consideration. 

"  Emmie,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  you  must  see  you  ought 
to  be  careful  in  your  dealings  with  a  man  who  is  a 
stranger  to  you.  You've  got  two  children  to  bring  up. 
A  person  in  your  position  can't  go  gadding  about  with 
a  man :  it  isn't  seemly :  it  isn't  proper.  You  don't  mean 
anything  serious  —  you  can't  of  course  in  your  position 


312  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

and  with  those  two  children  of  yours.  But  you'll  get 
talked  about  if  you're  not  careful.  And  that  affects  us  — 
you  are  Mrs.  Booke,  remember !  " 

"  Yes,"  snapped  Miss  Booke,  "  you're  not  Emmie  Bol- 
lins  now." 

Emmie  got  up,  she  looked  as  if  she  were  about  to  say 
something  heated,  but  suddenly  changed  her  mind  and 
said :  "  I'm  going  home." 

She  had  only  got  a  stride  away  when  Mrs.  Grass  caught 
hold  of  her.  "  Emmie,  Emmie,"  she  said,  "  before  all 
these  people.  Come  back." 

Emmie's  tears  were  welling  about  her  eyes. 

"  I'm  only  saying  things  for  Emmie's  good,"  said  Miss 
Booke  as  if  she  would  soothe  matters,  but  seemed  to  ad- 
dress her  remark  to  the  waves. 

"  Eh,  dear!  Eh,  dear!  "  said  Mrs.  Holten;  "  Emmie, 
you've  got  a  hot  temper." 

Emmie  wanted  to  swear  at  them.  A  robust  swear 
word  was  at  the  top  of  her  tongue  and  its  presence  there 
dammed  the  tears  effectively. 

"  I  wish  you'd  talk  about  something  else,"  said  Mrs. 
Grass.  "  Sit  down,  Emmie." 

"  No,  Aunt  Sophia,  I'm  not  going  to  be  talked  to  or 
at  like  that." 

"  You  won't  be  talke.d  to  or  at  like  that  if  you'll  behave 
properly,"  said  Miss  Booke  impenitently. 

Emmie  suddenly  felt  calmer.  It  was  as  if  the  little 
crisis  had  spent  itself. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said,  and  this  time  there  was  nobody 
to  catch  her  arm  and  detain  her. 

Mrs.  Grass  sighed  and  said,  "  Dear  me !  "  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Holten  shook  her  head.  Miss  Booke  said :  "  Do 
her  good.  .  .  .  Hot-tempered  thing!  .  .  .  Going  to  dis- 
grace us  —  or  what  ?  .  .  .  She's  not  going  to  marry  again 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  313 

surely,  and  that  man  meant  something  or  I've  no  eyes 
in  my  head." 

"  I  don't  know,  Maria  .  .  ."  said  Mrs.  Grass,  wishing 
to  damp  these  awful  thoughts. 

"  I  do,"  snapped  Miss  Booke. 

"  She  isn't  married  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

Emmie  walked  off  a  little  of  her  temper  and  wondered 
now  and  then  if  she  had  been  too  hasty.  Then  she  re- 
called Aunt  Maria's  phrases  and  almost  called  herself  a 
coward.  She  would  not  put  up  with  that  any  more.  It 
was  insulting :  Aunt  Maria  wanted  to  be  insulting.  "  Be- 
have properly  "  indeed.  What  in  the  wortfl  had  she  done  ? 
Nothing  at  all.  She  had  behaved  properly  and  here  were 
her  aunts  going  on  as  if  she  had  disgraced  them. 

She  knew  the  reason :  they  were  afraid  of  her  marry- 
ing again.  That  was  it.  Jealous  .  .  .  with  something 
of  "  Booke  &  Son"  in  the  feeling  too. 

Emmie  scarcely  knew  how  she  got  back  to  her  room, 
but  once  there  she  felt  free  to  let  her  emotions  have  their 
sway.  Yes,  what  had  she  done  ?  .  .  .  She  went  over  the 
injustice  of  her  aunts'  remarks  and  the  correctness  of  her 
own  conduct.  She  had  done  nothing  of  which  she  ought 
to  be  ashamed.  .  .  . 

Then  she  drifted  into  the  essence  of  the  situation. 
Mr.  Tame.  .  .  .  She  wanted  him.  She  knew  she  wanted 
him.  That  was  really  why  she  had  been  slow  to  reply 
to  her  aunts,  for  her  conscience  said  to  her  —  you  really 
want  him. 

But  Aunt  Maria  was  a  cat  to  call  him  names.  Only 
done  for  spite  —  just  venomous  spite. 

Emmie  was  tender  here.  Her  brave  showing  broke 
and  she  sat  down  and  tried  to  think  what  really  would 
happen. 


3H  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

She  knew  she  wanted  him  —  or  she  would  like  to  have 
him.  He  was  such  a  gentleman :  the  very  sort  she  would 
love  for  a  husband.  And  she  was  young  enough  yet  to 
want  a  man  as  a  mate.  .  .  . 

Why  should  she  not  marry  again  ?  There  was  no  harm 
in  that:  no  shame  in  it.  She  had  been  a  good  wife  to 
Tim  and  done  her  duty.  Now  she  was  a  widow.  .  .  . 

Suppose  Mr.  Tame  really  proposed  to  her?  .  .  . 

What  would  her  aunts  say?  They  would  go  nearly 
mad.  They  would  never  forgive  her.  Grandpa  too  .  .  . 

She  sighed. 

Could  she  defy  them?  It  was  all  very  well  talking 
about  doing  what  you  wanted  even  if  it  was  all  right,  but 
you  couldn't  always  do  it  if  your  relatives  and  friends 
went  against  you.  After  all,  she  owed  all  her  position 
to  the  Bookes.  She  had  got  the  Works  as  hers  when 
they'd  been  in  the  Booke  family  for  years. 

Emmie  wept 

There  was  a  knock  at  her  door,  and  Aunts  Jane,  Maria 
and  Sophia  walked  in. 

Emmie  looked  at  them  sturdily,  scarcely  defiantly. 
She  was  wearing  a  dressing  gown  and  did  not  speak. 

Mrs.  Holten  said :  "  It's  no  good  us  quarrelling, 
Emmie." 

"  I  don't  want  to  quarrel,"  said  Emmie,  "  but  I  won't 
be  treated  like  a  child." 

"  Nobody  wants  to  treat  you  like  a  child ;  but  you  can't 
do  exactly  what  you  want.  Now  suppose  that  Mr.  Tame 
—  we  might  just  as  well  have  it  out  —  wants  to  marry 
you,  what  will  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  refuse  to  discuss  that,"  said  Emmie. 

"  But  I'm  going  to  discuss  it,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  be- 
cause we're  interested.  You  see  you've  got  the  business. 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  315 

T.  Booke  &  Son  is  in  your  hands  unfortunately  and  if  you 
marry  some  stranger  might  be  bossing  the  Booke's  works, 
for  whatever  you  think,  we  look  upon  that  factory  as 
ours  —  Booke's  ?  " 

"  Well."  .  .  .  Emmie  was  quiet. 

"  Bring  a  stranger  in  there  and  we'll  never  forgive  you. 
It  wouldn't  matter  much  if  you  hadn't  the  control  of  the 
Works :  if  you  had  some  money  and  were  bettering  your- 
self—  marrying  a  rich  man  for  instance.  But  who  is 
this  Mr.  Tame?  What  is  he?  " 

"  And  what  do  you  want  to  bother  about  a  man  for 
now  ?  "  said  Miss  Booke,  "  you've  two  children.  A  man 
doesn't  go  after  a  widow  with  two  children  unless  she's 
money." 

"  I've  told  you,  Emmie,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  we  want 
to  be  friends  for  Tim's  sake  and  the  children's:  but  do 
anything  foolish " 

"  Foolish  —  wicked  I  call  it,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

Emmie  was  tingling  all  over. 

"  We'll  never  forgive  you,"  added  Mrs.  Holten.  "  If 
you  had  no  business  and  no  children  I'd  say  nothing 
against  your  marrying  again:  as  it  is  —  well.  I've  told 
you  what  I  think.  I  should  consider  it  disgraceful.  I 
hope  you'll  take  what  I've  said  sensibly,  Emmie.  You've 
got  plenty  to  do  with  your  life  if  you  look  after  the  chil- 
dren and  the  business  —  but  a  husband  now  —  "  She 
made  a  movement  of  disgust. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  ejaculated  Miss  Booke. 

When  Emmie  was  alone  again  she  had  a  good  cry. 
Why  should  she  be  attacked  this  way?  Why  shouldn't 
she  marry  again?  .  .  . 

Her  questions  were  not  answered  but  she  passed  a  fit- 
ful and  melancholy  night  and  rose  in  the  morning  with  a 
kind  of  resignation. 


316  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Mrs.  Holten  and  Mrs.  Grass  were  very  pleasant  to 
her  in  the  morning  as  if  they  wished  to  show  her  how 
very  nice  they  could  be  if  she  behaved  herself  in  a  fashion 
of  which  they  approved.  And  Miss  Booke,  who  came 
down  later,  was  also  very  affable  and  agreeable  and  sug- 
gested they  should  go  for  a  little  picnic. 

Emmie  had  almost  come  to  the  conclusion  that  one 
must  not  expect  to  get  all  one  desired  in  this  life  and  was 
prepared  to  let  Mr.  Tame  fade  from  her  plans  if  not  from 
her  memory. 

He  was  not  in  sight  as  they  waited  for  breakfast  and 
Emmie  wondered  if  he  had  gone  ...  or  was  offended  at 
Aunt  Maria's  behaviour  to  him. 

Then  suddenly  she  saw  him  at  the  gate.  Just  as  he 
was  turning  to  come  in  a  girl  about  twenty,  remarkably 
pretty,  whom  Emmie  had  noticed  with  a  keen  interest 
sitting  at  a  table  not  far  from  theirs,  went  up  to  him, 
talked  to  him,  put  her  hand  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  put 
her  arm  in  his  and  they  turned  together  down  the  prom- 
enade. 

Emmie's  heart  seemed  to  give  a  leap. 

Miss  Booke,  standing  beside  her,  grunted.  She,  too, 
had  observed  the  little  comedy  at  the  gate. 

"  That's  it  —  that's  his  style.  .  .  .  You  needn't  worry 
your  head,  Emmie :  that's  what  your  friend,  Mr.  Tame,  is 
after,"  she  said,  as  if  Providence  had  arranged  the  scene 
for  her  backing  and  the  teaching  of  Emmie. 

Emmie  wanted  to  scream  in  her  aunt's  face.  She 
wanted  to  rush  to  the  gate  and  see  where  Mr.  Tame  and 
that  hussy  had  gone. 

She  felt  a  pain  inside  her  and  wanted  to  sit  down.  But 
somehow  she  kept  standing  and  preserved  quite  a  dis- 
creet attitude.  She  managed  to  curl  her  lip  a  little  as  if 
she  were  indifferent. 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  317 

Aunt  Maria  was  deluded  for  the  moment.  She  was 
clearly  very  pleased  at  the  incident  and  wished  her  com- 
mon sense,  of  which  she  imagined  she  had  enough  for  a 
whole  family,  and  penetrating  insight  could  be  appre- 
ciated at  its  proper  worth.  She  was  always  right.  .  .  . 
She  sunned  herself  in  the  beams  of  a  sublime  self-satis- 
faction. 

Mrs.  Holten  and  Mrs.  Grass  edging  to  the  door  mut- 
tered things: 

"  It's  a  lovely  day.  .  .  .  There  are  a  lot  of  people  about 
before  breakfast!  That's  a  nice  dress,  and  not  dressy, 
either " 

Emmie  said :  "  Ada  ought  to  be  back  with  the  chil- 
dren." 

She  was  looking  out  over  the  front. 

"Where  are  they,  Emmie?"  Mrs.  Grass  asked. 

"  Gone  for  a  little  run,"  and  Emmie  walked  to  the 
gate  as  if  she  would  hunt  for  them. 

She  looked  both  ways  but  longer  in  the  direction  Mr. 
Tame  had  gone  with  that  pretty  girl  on  his  arm.  She  saw 
them.  .  .  .  The  girl  seemed  very  happy.  He,  too  .  .  . 

Emmie  had  to  catch  her  breath.  She  swallowed  and 
then  fiercely  came  back. 

Aunt  Maria  said  to  herself,  "  She's  gone  to  watch  him." 
Those  women  who  think  themselves  always  right  in  their 
surmises  are  really  right  occasionally. 

Mrs.  Grass  said :     "  Aren't  they  there,  Emmie  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  see  them,  but  I  expect  they'll  be  here  in  a 
minute." 

"  Yes.  I  shouldn't  worry,"  said  Mrs.  Grass,  who  had 
not  seen  all  and  did  not  understand,  though  she,  with  her 
woman's  knowledge,  felt  there  was  more  than  the  ab- 
sence of  the  children  disturbing  Emmie. 

During  breakfast  Emmie  looked  after  the  children  al- 


318  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

most  ostentatiously.  She  was  also  very  observant  of 
other  people  in  the  room  and  ate  very  little.  She  man- 
aged to  hide  this  last  fact  rather  deftly,  for  she  had  some 
fish,  which  she  broke  up  on  her  plate,  accusing  herself 
temporarily  of  waste  with  the  instinct  of  an  economical 
woman  and  poohpoohing  the  accusation  with  the  fury  of 
a  jealous  one  a  moment  later.  When  her  aunts  appeared 
to  be  busily  engaged  with  their  own  breakfasts,  or  at 
least,  not  watching  her,  Emmie  got  the  waitress  to  take 
her  plate  away  as  if  she  had  finished. 

Mrs.  Grass  passed  her  the  marmalade  which  Emmie  did 
not  want.  But  she  smeared  some  on  her  plate,  broke  up 
some  toast  into  bits  and  had  an  air  of  having  made  a 
capital  breakfast. 

Talking  was  her  greatest  difficulty.  She  could  con- 
centrate on  nothing.  She  was  afraid  she  was  going  to 
be  ill  and  wondered  if  she  might  say  she  was.  Her  aunts 
might  think  it  was  due  to  their  upsetting  ways.  .  .  .  No 
they  wouldn't:  they  weren't  of  that  kind.  .  .  .  Besides 
Aunt  Maria  had  seen  the  occurrence  at  the  gate,  and 
would,  of  course,  say  that  was  the  reason. 

And  so  it  was.  Emmie  was  almost  literally  in  agony. 
She  had  never  fancied  she  could  feel  so  keenly  over  a 
man.  When  he  smiled  as  that  girl  took  his  arm  Emmie 
had  felt  her  heart  and  stomach  —  principally  stomach  — 
go  like  lead,  then  as  if  it  dissolved  and  left  a  cankerous 
pain  behind. 

She  looked  at  the  girl  and  could  not  deny  she  was 
pretty  —  and  young.  These  young  girls  .  .  .  men  would 
go  after  them:  why?  .  .  .  She  knew  why.  Youth  and 
innocence.  .  .  .  Innocence  —  bah!  She  —  Emmie  — 
would  make  him  happier  than  any  of  those  milk  and 
watery  creatures  only  just  out  of  their  teens.  .  .  .  What 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  319 

did  they  know  about  life?  And  she  was  in  the  fine  flood 
of  life's  vigour.  .  .  . 

Tim  would  interrupt  her  —  and  Alice.     And  her  aunts. 

When  they  had  finished  breakfast  and  the  room  was 
almost  empty,  Miss  Booke  suggested  again  that  it  would 
really  be  a  very  nice  day  for  a  picnic.  They  would  get 
sandwiches  —  she  knew  that,  because  she  had  had  them 
before  once  when  a  picnic  had  been  got  up  —  and  they 
would  be  back  in  time  for  dinner  in  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Holten  was  agreeable.  Mrs.  Grass  thought  it 
was  a  very  nice  idea.  "  Emmie !  "  .  .  . 

"  I'm  not  coming,"  said  Emmie. 

The  aunts  looked  contraried. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Miss  Booke  drawing 
herself  up. 

"  I'm  going  on  the  sands  with  the  children." 

"  You  can  go  to-morrow." 

Emmie  was  not  in  a  humour  to  be  told  what  to  do  by 
her  aunts  just  now. 

"  So  I  can :     I'm  going  to-day,  too." 

Maria,  Jane  and  Sophia  looked  at  their  niece  curiously 
and  then  at  each  other. 

"What's  the  matter,  Emmie?"  asked  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  Temper !  "  ejaculated  Miss  Booke  savagely. 

Emmie  was  on  the  point  of  making  a  retort  and  per- 
haps a  scene,  when  the  something  prudent  within  her  put 
out  a  restraining  hand.  .  .  .  What  was  the  good  of 
quarrelling,  after  all?  And  they  had  really  nothing  to 
do  with  that  girl.  ...  It  would  be  better  to  be  tactful. 

Emmie  raised  a  faint  smile. 

"  It  isn't  temper  at  all,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  feel  like 
going  for  a  picnic,  that's  all.  There  is  no  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  go  without  me." 


320  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

The  elderly  ladies  were  in  a  fix.  Leave  their  niece 
with  this  man  about  the  house  while  they  went  away  the 
whole  day  on  a  picnic?  .  .  .  Impossible.  On  the  other 
hand  be  dominated  by  that  same  niece  -•—  Emmie  Bollins 
that  was?  .  .  .  Horrible  predicament. 

Mrs.  Holten  looked  cross  and  troubled.  Mrs.  Grass 
was  more  troubled  than  cross.  Miss  Booke  looked  very 
angry. 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  go?"  she  said,  in  a  fierce 
undertone. 

Emmie  was  nettled  and  nerved  by  the  tone.  She  was 
in  a  mood  to  fight  now  —  to  fight  tactfully  if  need  be, 
but  to  fight. 

"  Have  you  finished,  children?  "  she  said  to  Tim  and 
Alice.  "  Tell  Ada  to  get  you  ready :  I  am  coming  with 
you  on  the  sands."  When  the  children  had  gone,  Emmie 
said:  "There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  go  for 
your  picnic  if  you  want." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Booke ;  "  what's  to  prevent  you 
coming?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Emmie,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 
"If  there's  any  reason  for  your  not  coming  let  us  hear 
it;  we  can  go  to  the  picnic  another  day." 

"The  reason  is,  I  don't  want  to  go,"  said  Emmie, 
and,  looking  through  the  door,  she  caught  sight  of  Mr. 
Tame  standing.  Was  he  waiting  for  her?  Or  was  that 
girl  with  him  ?  She  had  the  weak  feeling  in  the  stomach 
again.  ...  It  was  horrible.  But  she  knew  what  she 
wanted  all  the  same.  She  would  fight  for  that  man  .  .  . 
do  almost  anything.  .  .  . 

She  sat  still,  in  real  torture  because  her  aunts  did  not 
get  up  quickly  and  allow  her  to  go  to  Mr.  Tame.  Did 
they  intend  to  sit  there  all  day?  She  would  give  them 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  321 

the  lead,  but  she  hoped  they  would  move  first,  so  as  to 
cover  up  her  impatience. 

"  If  Emmie  would  rather  stay  with  the  children,  we 
can  go,"  said  Mrs.  Grass,  "or  we  can  put  it  off  for 
another  day." 

"Will  you  come  on  the  pier,  Emmie?"  asked  Mrs. 
Holten. 

"  I've  told  the  children  I  am  going  on  the  sands,"  she 
said. 

"  You  can  tell  them  you're  not,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

"  But  I  won't,"  said  Emmie  sharply.  "  I'm  not  a 
child.  I  won't  let  you  or  anybody  else  treat  me  as  one. 
If  I  want  to  go  on  the  sands  I'll  go.  I'm  not  going  to 
be  told  I  must  do  this  and  I  mustn't  do  that.  .  .  ." 

She  got  up,  flushed  with  emotion.  Had  she  struck 
the  right  note  ?  She  wanted  to  hide  her  real  motive,  for 
the  woman  hunting  the  male  is  superlatively  cunning,  just 
as  she  will  be  superlatively  daring  if  necessity  drives. 

The  three  ladies  at  the  table  looked  as  if  they  were 
grievously  injured.  They  had  a  niece  who  would  not 
behave  properly  and  was  a  great  source  of  trial  to  them. 
Miss  Booke  and  Mrs.  Holten  considered  themselves  mar- 
tyrs—  in  a  mild  way  —  and  Emmie  a  most  ungrateful 
creature.  Here  they  were  thinking  of  her  welfare  and 
happiness  and  look  how  she  behaved.  .  .  .  The  ingrati- 
tude there  was  in  the  world ! 

Emmie  went  out  of  the  room,  hoping  she  had  made 
them  believe  she  was  offended  with  them  for  lecturing 
her  so  much.  But  not  one  of  them  believed  it  save,  per- 
haps, Mrs.  Grass,  who  did  not  do  much  lecturing.  The 
other  two  considered  they  only  did  their  duty,  and  con- 
sequently could  not  understand  how  any  sensible  —  any 
really  sensible  person  —  could  be  offended  at  that. 


322  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Near  the  door  Emmie  glanced  round.  He  was  there 
—  and  not  with  that  girl.  Emmie,  pretending  to  be  look- 
ing for  the  children,  turned  to  him  and  smiled. 

"  Your  aunts  seem  to  surround  you  pretty  well,"  he 
ventured  a  little  intimately. 

"  Yes.  I  am  going  on  the  sands,"  she  said,  in  an  un- 
dertone. 

He  was  quick  enough  to  catch  the  message  in  the  voice. 

"  May  I  come?  "  he  asked. 

"  If  you  want." 

"Usual  place?" 

"Yes." 

Emmie  then  turned  smartly  away  and  went  upstairs. 

She  shut  the  door  of  her  room  and  muttered,  "  I'll 
show  you."  A  somewhat  vague  sort  of  threat,  which 
might  have  been  meant  for  either  that  "  hussy,"  who  took 
Mr.  Tame's  arm,  or  for  Miss  Booke. 

She  had  to  sit  down.  Her  excitement  was  intense  and 
her  heart  was  beating  boisterously.  But  she  had  the  look 
of  one  who  had  achieved  something  on  which  she  had  set 
her  heart.  She  was  now  the  female  resolute  for  the 
male,  and  there  may  be  a  keener  and  more  desperate  reso- 
lution, but  none  more  reckless.  Emmie  would  have  him 
now  if  she  had  to  do  things  unusual  and  unwomanly. 
That  other  girl  should  not  take  his  arm  again  —  have  his 
arms  round  her.  .  .  . 

Emmie  was  in  a  fury  as  she  thought  of  that.  She  had 
not  realised  that  she  loved  him  till  she  saw  him  with 
that  girl.  It  was  terrible.  And  here  were  her  aunts 
trying  to  stop  her.  .  .  .  She'd  like  to  see  them  stop  her 
now ;  she'd  like  to  see  anybody  stop  her.  .  .  .  She  would 
have  him.  She'd  marry  him  if  all  the  Bookes  that  had 
ever  lived  said  she  mustn't.  She'd  show  them.  .  .  . 

The  phrase  was  out  again.     It  was  an  earnest  of  Em- 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  323 

mie's  mind.  She  put  on  her  hat.  She  was  not  going 
on  the  sands  to  sit  down  and  sew :  she  was  going  to  see 
him.  What  would  he  say?  Would  he  propose?  He 
must.  She  would  make  him.  She  would  lure  him  on 
till  he  did.  .  .  . 

But  he  wouldn't  want  any  luring.  He  was  just  as  keen 
as  she  was.  Hadn't  he  been  keen  from  the  start  —  from 
the  very  first  day? 

And  how  quickly  he  said  "  May  I  come  ?  "...  It  was 
lovely  to  hear  him  say  that.  And  "  usual  place."  .  .  . 
Usual  place.  .  .  .  Emmie  almost  danced.  Usual  place 
meant  where  she  was  —  that  was  what  usual  place  meant. 

She  would  have  him.  .  .  .  She  would  show  them. 

Her  face  was  burning.  She  put  her  hand  up  to  feel 
her  cheeks  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  What  a 
red  colour!  .  .  . 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  Mrs.  Grass  came 
in. 

"  There's  nothing  wrong,  Emmie  ?  "  said  Aunt  Sophia, 
somewhat  sympathetically. 

Emmie  had  to  act  quickly  and  well,  but  was  quite 
capable  of  filling  the  role  of  dust-in-the-eye  thrower  that 
every  woman  trying  to  help  or  encourage  a  man  to  take 
her  has  to  play. 

"  It  isn't  you,  Aunt  Sophia,"  Emmie  said.  "  But  I 
won't  be  bullied.  I'm  tired  of  being  told  what  to  do  and 
what  not.  Besides,  to-day  I  feel  like  resting  a  bit." 

Mrs.  Grass  watched  her. 

"  You  mustn't  be  so  ...  well  —  you  know  your  Aunt 
Jane  and  Aunt  Maria  are  thinking  of  your  good.  Still, 
I  think  it  will  blow  over.  Act  as  if  there's  nothing  the 
matter  at  lunch.  We're  going  on  the  pier.  We  shall 
see  you  at  lunch-time." 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  delighted  at  the  turn  of  events. 


324  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  I'm  glad  it's  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Grass,  meaning 
that  she  hoped  the  "  row  "  would  now  be  forgotten,  and 
she  smiled  pleasantly  as  she  went  out. 

Mr.  Tame  said  to  himself,  when  Emmie  had  gone: 
"  Well,  I'm  blest."  He  turned  round  instinctively  to 
look  in  the  direction  Emmie  had  gone.  He  was  tingling 
with  a  glorious  emotion.  "  I  am  going  on  the  sands  " 
...  he  repeated  the  phrase  to  himself.  Also  he  re- 
peated, "  Well,  I'm  blest!" 

He  walked  away  before  the  three  members  of  the 
Booke  family  came  to  the  door. 

Emmie  gave  her  aunts  plenty  of  time  to  go  out  before 
she  came  down,  and  then  she  went,  with  some  crocheting, 
to  that  usual  place  on  the  sands. 

Ada  was  there  with  Tim  and  Alice,  who  were  working 
like  splendid  amateurs. 

Emmie,  well-dressed,  watched  the  children. 

"  That's  a  moat,  Mother,"  said  Tim. 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"  An'  I'm  going  to  fetch  the  water,"  said  Alice. 
"  That's  going  to  be  filled  with  water,  Mammy." 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"  And  I  think  I  shall  make  a  bridge  —  could  I  make  a 
bridge,  Mother  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  you  might,  dear.  .  .  ." 

Emmie  was  looking  round  keenly  to  see  if  she  were 
being  watched  by  those  sharp-eyed  aunts  of  hers.  Did 
they  suspect?  And  were  they  watching? 

Emmie  felt  one  moment  as  if  she  did  not  mind  if  they 
were  spying  on  her  and  observing  her  every  movement, 
and  the  next  that  she  must  be  discreet  and  prudent  and 
most  careful. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  325 

She  also  looked  round  for  Mr.  Tame.  .  .  . 

The  sight  of  the  children  set  other  thoughts  stirring. 
They  would  be  all  right.  Why  not  ?  She  had  the  money 
and  he  would  be  kind  to  them.  .  .  .  She  could  tell  that : 
he  was  of  that  sort.  Besides,  she  must  have  him  —  she 
must  marry  him. 

"  So  that's  the  terrible  castle,  is  it?  " 

Emmie  turned.  He  was  there.  Her  heart  gave  a 
leap.  She  felt  satisfied. 

Tim  and  Alice  came  to  him  at  once.  He  smiled  at 
Emmie. 

"I  suppose  you  are  supervising,  is  that  it?" 

"  Not  very  keenly,"  she  said. 

She  loved  his  easy  way.  Besides,  she  need  do  no 
luring.  She  could  play  the  feminine  role  of  retiring 
to  prolong  the  love-making;  she  could  watch  and 
observe  and  enjoy  his  capture  of  her.  He  was  man 
enough.  .  .  . 

"  This  is  the  gate,"  said  Tim. 

"  And  I'm  going  to  get  the  water  in  my  bucket,"  said 
Alice. 

"  That's  for  the  moat,"  said  Tim.  "  Can't  I  build  a 
bridge?  How  do  you  build  a  bridge?  Mine's  always 
falling  in." 

"  A  bridge  —  for  the  fairies  ?  " 

Alice  looked  as  if  wonders  were  about.  Tim  was 
scornful. 

"  Fairies  —  there  aren't  any  such  things !  " 

"There  are,"  shouted  Alice.  "Aren't  there,  Mr. 
Tame?  Say  there  are." 

"There  are,"  he  said. 

Alice  shouted :  "  There  are  fairies,  there  are  fairies, 
there  are  fairies.  I  knew  there  were !  " 

Tim  was  stolid  —  unconvinced. 


326  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  In  books,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Tame  laughed,  looked  at  Emmie  and  caught  her 
smile. 

"  Now,  about  the  bridge,"  he  said.  "  What  is  it  really 
for?" 

"  Well,"  replied  Tim,  "  castles  have  bridges." 

"  Exactly.  For  the  knight  returning  from  the  wars 
with  his :  '  What,  ho,  there,  varlet !  Drop  down  the 
bridge  and  raise  the  portcullis ! ' 

Tim's  eyes  danced.  Alice  stood,  mouth  open,  drink- 
ing in  the  wonderful  picture. 

"  We'll  make  a  bridge,"  said  Mr.  Tame,  "  with  a  piece 
of  wood.  Find  one,  Tim." 

As  Tim  looked  for  the  wood,  Emmie  said :  "  Don't 
worry  with  the  children." 

"  It's  no  worry :  it's  a  pleasure.  I  love  children.  And 
after  the  bridge-building  there  might,  perhaps,  be  a  walk 
for  the  mother,  eh  ?  —  I  nearly  said  sister." 

"  Sister  —  don't  be  silly.  I'm  .  .  .  I'm  nearly  thirty," 
she  said,  with  a  kind  of  bravado. 

"  The  perfect  age,"  he  said  ..."  for  me." 

Emmie  looked  over  the  sea,  the  ageless  sea. 

Tim  came  back  with  a  piece  of  wood,  which  served 
splendidly  as  a  bridge,  and  then  amid  groans  from  the 
children,  Mr.  Tame  and  Emmie,  after  promising  to  be 
back  soon,  set  off  walking  along  the  sands  towards  the 
cliffs  on  the  north  shore. 

Emmie  felt  on  the  threshold  of  a  great  adventure. 
She  knew  what  she  wanted,  and  there  were  no  doubts 
or  merely  the  doubts  of  feeble  strength,  suggesting  she 
might  not  get  what  she  most  desired. 

He,  having  had  a  fairly  extensive  experience  with 
women,  seemed  to  understand  her.  He  knew  he  was 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  327 

acceptable  to  her,  and  he  realised  that  the  hour  was  pro- 
pitious. 

"  Your  husband  must  have  died  soon  after  you  were 
married,"  he  said,  dashing  almost  at  once  onto  the  per- 
sonal side  of  the  whole  matter  to  glean  as  much  knowl- 
edge as  he  could. 

Emmie  responded.  She  told  him  when  she  was  mar- 
ried, when  Tim  died,  and  how  she  managed  the  hat 
works. 

"  Now  tell  me  about  yourself,"  she  said. 

"  Uninteresting." 

"  No,"  she  said  boldly. 

"  I  never  hoped  for  such  luck,"  he  said,  and  paused  a 
moment  for  emphasis. 

Then  he  told  his  tale.  He  had  travelled  for  X  &  Y 
and  A  B  &  Co.,  two  well-known  firms,  in  America,  Aus- 
tralia and  the  East.  He  had  now  got  such  a  knowledge 
of  the  Eastern  market,  China,  Japan  and  the  East  Indies, 
that  he  was  going  to  find  a  partner  and  set  up  as  a  mer- 
chant. There  were  thousands  of  pounds  to  be  made  at 
the  game  —  thousands.  He  was  a  steady  chap,  of  good 
family  —  father  was  a  parson  in  Somerset,  with  a  big 
family,  and  he  had  been  educated  at  Uppingham. 

Emmie  was  content.  The  social  side  of  his  tale  pleased 
her.  He  was  a  gentleman,  father  a  clergyman,  and  had 
had  a  good  education;  though  she  was  not  sure  if  Up- 
pingham, or  whatever  it  was,  meant  college  education  or 
not.  At  any  rate,  it  was  good  enough  for  her. 

They  walked  along  the  sands  where  the  waves  had 
made  cameos  of  their  gambols,  and  at  a  bend  of  the 
cliffs  he  descried  a  kind  of  shelter,  a  covering,  as  it  were, 
from  the  gaze  of  the  vulgar. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  remain  a  widow  always !  "  he 
said. 


328  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  I  don't  know."  She  said  it  quietly.  She  did  not 
want  to  damp  or  deter  him,  but  she  could  not  afford  to 
make  him  do  all  the  running  till  she  felt  he  was  on  the 
course.  Having  gone  through  the  mating  once,  she  was 
willing  to  waive  the  satisfaction  of  the  wooing  if  she 
made  sure  of  the  result 

"  I  think  you  hit  me  as  you  came  through  the  door 
the  day  you  arrived.  .  .  ." 

Emmie  said  nothing.  The  anticipation  was  most  de- 
lectable. 

"  I  said  to  myself,  some  chap's  highly  favoured." 

Still  nothing  from  Emmie.  She  was  looking  at  the 
sands. 

"  And  when  I  heard  you  were  a  widow  ...  I  nearly 
thanked  God." 

"  How  wicked !  "  she  said,  hanging  her  head  and  feel- 
ing joyous. 

"  Wicked.  .  .  .  No,  not  really.  .  .  .  You  know  what 
I  mean." 

He  looked  at  her.  He  had  been  a  little  excited  up  to 
now,  but  her  attitude  reassured  him  and  he  felt  that  the 
prize  was  his. 

"What  do  they  call  you  —  Emmie?" 

She  tried  to  draw  herself  up,  or  rather  make  a  mock 
attempt  at  it  —  not  to  reprove  him;  he  had  to  see  she 
did  not  mind. 

"  Emmie."  He  took  her  by  the  arms.  "  I  really  don't 
know  if  I'm  standing  on  my  head  or  my  heels.  .  .  .  Will 
you  marry  me?  .  .  ." 

He  stood  apart  from  her  for  a  moment. 

She  was  in  ecstasy  and  was  willing  to  let  him  go  on 
talking  now.  It  was  lovely.  .  .  . 

He  put  an  arm  round  her. 

"  Emmie  ...  I  simply  fell  head  over  heels  in  love 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  329 

with  you  when  you  came  through  that  doorway  .  .  . 
couldn't  help  it,  and  I've  been  sinking  farther  and  farther 
in  ever  since.  .  .  ."  He  drew  her  to  him.  "  Oh !  My 
God !  But  you  will.  .  .  ." 

She  could  feel  herself  being  held  by  strong,  warm  arms, 
being  held  against  a  strong  body.  He  held  her  tight  and 
she  felt  in  paradise. 

He  lifted  her  face  and  she  gave  a  glance  at  him  and 
then  shut  her  eyes.  He  kissed  her  forehead  —  then  her 
lips.  She  was  passive  at  first,  and  he  kissed  her  again. 

She  responded  then,  and  made  him  realise  her  vig- 
our. 

Her  heart  was  beating  wildly.  He  still  held  her 
tightly  to  him  and  bent  her  face  again  close  to  his.  "  You 
haven't  said  Yes,  darling,"  he  whispered. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  all  the  passion 
of  tell-tale  eyes. 

"  Thank  God !  "  he  said.  "  It's  wonderful  —  too  won- 
derful for  words.  .  .  .  Oh!  Emmie,  my  darling  mine. 
...  It  is  almost  incredible."  He  took  her  face  in  his 
hands,  felt  her  flushed  cheeks,  saw  the  fire  in  her  eyes 
and  the  eagerness  in  her  lips.  He  kissed  her  again  and 
she  kissed  him  more  hotly  in  return. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  ...  I  feel  in  Heaven,"  he 
said.  "  You.  ...  I  almost  prayed  for  you  that  night 
I  went  to  you  on  the  pier  —  you  remember?  The  night 
you  came?  " 

She  nodded,  still  tingling  with  her  magnificent  ecstasy. 

"  Let  us  sit  down  a  moment,"  she  said. 

There  were  no  seats  near,  but  they  found  a  jutting  bit 
of  rock  and  she  sat  down  and  rested  while  he  held  her 
hand. 

She  had  got  him.  ...  He  was  hers.  ,  .  .  She  looked 


330  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

out  towards  the  great  waters  and  the  horizon  and  felt 
as  if  in  this  gorgeous  moment  she  struck  some  note  akin 
to  the  infinite. 

She  looked  at  him  lovingly. 

"  I  shall  want  to  go  on  kissing  you,  darling,  all  up  the 
steps  of  the  boarding-house." 

"  Silly !  "  she  said,  surrenderingly. 

But  she  was  practical  the  next  minute. 

"  I  don't  want  my  aunts  to  know  anything  about  it 
yet,"  she  said. 

"  All  right,  darling.  Anything  you  want.  We'll  keep 
the  devoted  aunts  in  ignorance." 

She  smiled  at  the  word  "  devoted." 

"  They'll  only  kick  up  a  fuss." 

"  I  understand.  Once  a  widow,  always  a  widow,  eh  ? 
It's  the  way  with  some  of  these  old  'uns.  Don't  heed 
'em,  darling.  We  can  get  married  on  the  quiet,  for  that 
matter,  and  then  they  can  mingle  with  their  surprise  the 
thoughts  about  what  they  would  have  said  if  they'd  only 
had  time,  and  congratulations  all  in  one." 

Emmie  looked  at  him  admiringly.  He  talked  beauti- 
fully—  with  such  a  gentlemanly  accent,  too. 

"  It's  no  good  having  rows,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Reginald,"  he  added,  drawing  her  close  to  him. 

"  Reginald,"  she  muttered. 

"  Or  Reg." 

"  Reg » 

"  Or  darling  —  darling." 

She  suddenly  caught  his  face  in  her  hands  and  kissed 
him.  He  fascinated  her. 

"If  the  bounteous  aunts  caught  us  now!"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  she  said,     "  They  said  they  were 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  331 

going  on  the  pier,  but  they  are  quite  capable  of  coming 
to  see  if  I  am  on  the  sands  with  the  children." 

"  And  I  must  be  discreet." 

"  Oh,  yes.  .  .  ." 

"  Love  has  no  age,  has  it?  "  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  think  it  has." 

They  walked  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"Well,  Emmie  darling,  what  is  the  programme?" 

"  I  am  just  thinking  .  .  .  Reg  dear  — " 

"  Gorgeous !  "  he  whispered. 

"  I  feel  like  a  young  girl !  "  she  said. 

"  I  feel  simply  indescribable." 

She  laughed,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  the  joy  that 
stirred  her. 

"  We  must  be  sensible,"  she  ventured ;  "  scarcely  a 
nod  — " 

"  Lor' ! " 

"  Well  ...  it,  er." 

"  The  sooner  the  better,  darling,"  he  whispered. 

She  bit  her  lip  as  if  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
to  a  speedy  marriage  and  was  inclined  to  think  that 
would  be  the  best  way  out  of  the  situation. 

"  Of  course,  I  ought  not  to  be  afraid,"  she  said,  "but 
I  know  what  would  happen.  Aunt  Jane  would  say  this 
and  Aunt  Maria  that,  and  I  should  have  no  peace  and 
you  would  probably  be  insulted." 

He  assured  her  he  would  endure  anything  for  her  sake, 
but  they  agreed  to  keep  the  engagement  quite  secret 
for  the  present  and  behave  with  due  reserve  and  circum- 
spection. 

Emmie  went  back  to  where  the  children  were,  and 
was  at  once  asked  where  Mr.  Tame  was. 


332  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

She  sat  down,  took  out  her  crocheting  so  that  she  had 
visible  means  of  occupation  if  any  of  her  aunts  came, 
and  looked  at  the  ceaseless  waves  breaking  into  white 
foam. 

Married  again.  .  .  .  She  was  going  to  be  married 
again  .  .  .  have  another  husband  —  and  what  a  man ! 
What  a  gentleman!  There  was  no  more  distinguished 
gentleman  in  Ganton! 

She  could  feel  his  arms  round  her  ...  his  lips  on 
hers.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  care  if  he  hadn't  a  penny.     She  had  plenty. 

When  he  held  her  in  his  arms  and  lifted  up  her  face 
with  his  hand  and  then  kissed  her.  .  .  . 

As  she  recalled  the  same  her  blood  seemed  to  rush 
through  her. 

"  So  here  you  are?  "  said  Aunt  Sophia. 

Emmie  turned  and  looked  unexpectedly  pleasant. 

"  Yes,  here  am  I.  Have  you  enjoyed  your  walk  on 
the  pier?" 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  as  if  soothed  with 
satisfaction. 

At  any  rate,  Emmie  was  on  the  sands  —  and  not  with 
that  man. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

EMMIE  was  inclined  to  overdo  her  pleasantness  to- 
wards her  aunts,  so  easy  is  it  for  happy  people  to 
forget  worries.  Fortunately,  the  elder  ladies,  being 
moved  by  a  certain  amount  of  egotism,  could  not  see 
Emmie  except  through  their  own  coloured  spectacles,  and 
so  attributed  the  change  in  her  behaviour  towards  them 
to  a  realisation  of  the  error  of  her  ways  and  a  proper 
repentance.  So  dull  can  vanity  make  us. 

Before,  during,  or  after  lunch,  Mr.  Tame  made  no 
sign.  Emmie  had  a  meal  for  remembrance.  Eat.  .  .  - 
She  wanted  nothing  to  eat.  She  had  something  other 
than  food  to  digest. 

To  be  married  again  ...  to  be  married  again.  .  .  . 
The  phrase  ran  through  her  brain,  bringing  pictures  in 
its  train.  She  saw  herself  once  more  the  married  woman 
with  the  man  by  her  side.  .  .  . 

Appealed  to  by  Aunt  Sophia  —  did  she  know  who  that 
lady  was  sitting  at  the  table  opposite :  very  like  Mrs.  Ox- 
ton  .  .  .  might  be  her  sister.  Emmie  leaned  forward 
with  a  smile,  the  attitude  of  beautiful  willingness,  and 
had  to  hear  the  question  again. 

And  she  was  willing  to  do  anything  or  go  anywhere 
her  aunts  suggested.  They  were  delighted.  She  had 
quite  clearly  seen  how  wrong  she  had  been  and  was  now 
quite  prepared  to  make  amends.  Now  they  were  al- 
most inclined  to  go  to  bed  in  the  afternoon,  so  great  wras 
their  confidence  in  her.  Bed  was  merely  hinted  at,  but 
at  once  put  aside  as  an  absurd  idea  for  practical  common 
sense  ladies,  who  came  to  the  seaside  for  health  and  fresh 

333 


334  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

air;  they  could  rest  in  a  cosy  chair  on  the  sands,  or  take 
it  easy  on  the  pier.  .  .  . 

Emmie  didn't  mind.  Whatever  was  suggested,  she 
didn't  mind! 

All  through  lunch  she  tried  to  listen  to  her  aunts  and 
pay  them  some  attention  —  enough  to  allay  all  suspicion 
and  keep  them  agreeable,  and  to  see  in  a  gorgeous  pano- 
rama her  own  dazzling  future. 

The  physical  side  kept  asserting  itself.  In  the  middle 
of  a  pleasant  fancy,  seeing  herself  as  Mrs.  Tame  and  all 
her  friends  looking  at  her  with  surprise,  and  envy,  she 
would  feel  Reginald's  arm  round  her,  his  lips  on  hers, 
and  she  had  to  give  herself  a  little  shake  to  get  her  nerv- 
ous centres  ready  to  respond  to  Aunt  Jane's  emotional 
remarks  and  not  to  bother  so  much  with  these  other 
things. 

A  drive  was  suggested.  Emmie  was,  of  course,  per- 
fectly willing  to  go  a  drive  as  she  was  to  do  anything 
else  that  afternoon.  She  was  intent  on  deceiving  and 
possessed  in  full  the  capacity  of  the  woman  in  love  to 
deceive  anybody  and  everybody  with  ease  and  success. 

She  could  stare  past  Reginald  as  if  he  were  not  known 
to  her  while  her  aunts  were  about,  and  give  him  a  glance 
to  stir  his  soul  the  moment  they  had  gone  to  dress. 

In  her  room  she  allowed  her  imagination  rein.  What 
would  they  say  in  Canton?  It  would  cause  a  talk.  At 
tea  tables  it  would  be  "  Mrs.  Booke's  married  again,"  and 
then,  "What!  .  .  .  Who  to?"  And  then  they  would 
learn  she  had  married  a  gentleman,  a  perfect  gentleman. 
....  Once  the  marriage  was  a  fact  her  aunts  would 
admit  Reginald  was  a  gentleman.  .  .  .  Aunt  Jane  might 
call  him  "  Collar  and  Cuffs  "  now,  but  that  was  only 
spite.  .  .  . 

And  he  would  come  to  Canton.         .  Of  course.      .  . 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  335 

And  she  did  not  care  a  bit  if  he  had  no  money.  What 
did  it  matter?  She  had  no  money  when  she  married 
Tim:  now  she  had  money  and  her  husband  could  be  as 
poor  as  he  liked. 

"  Emmie  —  are  you  ready  ?  " 

It  was  Aunt  Sophia  at  the  door. 

Emmie  grabbed  her  hat  and  invited  Aunt  Sophia  to 
come  in. 

"  Are  you  ready?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Jane  and  Aunt  Maria  are  downstairs." 

Emmie  laughed. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I've  been  doing,"  she  said.  "  I 
thought  there  was  plenty  of  time.  You're  taking  a  coat, 
I  see,  Aunt  Sophia." 

"  Oh,  yes;  you'd  better  take  one,  too;  it'll  be  cold,  you 
know,  driving." 

It  was  the  oddest  drive  Emmie  had  ever  had.  If  she 
could  have  talked  about  Reginald  to  sympathetic  aunts 
it  would  have  been  different;  but  she  had  to  talk  about 
that  woman  with  the  green  dress  —  most  awful  colour 
Aunt  Jane  had  ever  seen  —  and  that  lady  with  the  spec- 
tacles, a  lady  if  ever  there  was  one  .  .  .  lost  her  money 
.  .  .  come  down  a  bit  ...  but  what  a  lady!  You 
should  have  seen  her  at  the  door  with  the  clergyman. 
..."  He  was  the  suffragan,"  Aunt  Jane  heard  her  say. 
"  Knew  what  she  was  talking  about,"  Aunt  Jane  affirmed. 
And  there  was  that  pudding  they  had  last  night.  Aunt 
Sophia  had  fruit,  as  she  wasn't  feeling  too  well  —  was 
the  pudding  nice  ?  Very  nice  indeed,  and  simple,  too  — 
people  could  say  what  they  liked,  but  "  The  Towers " 
was  managed  by  somebody  with  a  head  on  her  shoulders. 
And  sleeves  were  going  less  —  a  good  thing,  too.  Those 
balloon  arrangements  were  most  awkward.  .  .  . 


336  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Emmie,  trying  to  catch  a  sufficient  thread  of  this  (and 
there  were  eight  miles  of  it,  excluding  rest  and  refresh- 
ment for  man  and  beast)  to  hang  a  suitable  word  on, 
was  all  the  time  thinking  of  her  husband-to-be  .  .  .  her 
new  life  .  .  .  what  they  would  say  in  Ganton  .  .  .  and 
what  sort  of  a  dress  should  she  be  married  in.  It  couldn't 
be  white,  of  course  —  purple  .  .  .  she  could  carry  pur- 
ple ...  or  a  more  delicate  colour,  mauve  ...  or  rose. 
...  A  light  grey  with  some  red  about  her  would  look 
well,  too.  .  .  . 

That,  mixed  with  the  other  conversation,  gave  Emmie 
an  afternoon  of  singular  enjoyment. 

The  elder  ladies  went  to  bed  early.  They  all  discov- 
ered the  fresh  air  made  them  sleepy,  and  Emmie  walked 
upstairs  at  the  same  time.  She,  however,  came  down 
again. 

Mr.  Tame  was  waiting  at  the  door. 

"  You  won't  feel  cold  without  a  wrap  of  some  kind?  " 
he  said. 

"Oh,  no." 

"  It's  a  lovely  evening  for  a  little  stroll,"  he  said,  as 
he  and  Emmie  turned  to  walk  on  the  front. 

"  It's  awful,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  ear- 
shot of  anybody. 

"  What?  "  she  said,  with  a  smile,  putting  her  hand  on 
his,  which  was  pressing  her  arm. 

"  Seeing  you  only  like  this." 

"Is  it?"  she  said,  smiling.  "Still,  it's  the  best  we 
can  do  at  present." 

"  Let's  go  and  get  married  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

"  To-morrow  —  oh !  .  .  .  that  ...  oh !  ..." 

"Why  not?     What's  the  good  of  waiting,  darling?" 

"  I.  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't  want  to  wait  if  you  don't,  dear, 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  337 

but  to-morrow.  .  .  .  And  we  should  know  just  a  bit 
about  each  other." 

"  You've  told  me  all  I  want  to  know  about  you.  I 
love  you  and  that  ends  it  as  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

She  squeezed  his  arm  against  her  body.  It  was  splen- 
did to  be  loved  and  beautiful  to  hear  it  said  by  a  man  in 
earnest. 

He  went  on :  "I  don't  know  if  you  want  to  know  any 
more  about  me.  You  really  ought  to  have  some  guar- 
antee that  I  am  all  right,  but  I  will  show  you  the  pater's 
and  mater's  photos  —  I  think  I've  got  one  of  the  family 
taken  on  the  lawn.  You  can  see  the  pater's  doings  in 
Crockford ;  it  isn't  much  of  a  living  —  about  four  twenty 
net  —  but  it's  a  lovely  house.  The  mater  will  adore  you, 
Emmie.  One  of  my  sisters  is  married  to  a  parson:  he 
was  a  curate  with  us;  very  nice  chap,  too;  he's  got  a 
living  now  in  Lincolnshire.  And  I've  another  sister  at 
home.  The  pater  was  at  B.N.C. —  Oxford  —  did  fairly 
well,  too.  He  wanted  me  to  go  to  Oxford,  but  I  didn't 
care  about  taking  orders  and  got  a  job  in  an  insurance 
office.  That  was  horribly  slow,  and  then  I  went  to 
Fonds  and  Mells,  got  travelling  —  and  you  know  the 
rest.  Not  much  money,  darling,  but  I  shall  earn  plenty 
when  I  get  this  Eastern  business  of  mine  going:  there's 
a  gold  mine  in  that  —  a  perfect  gold  mine." 

"  I  don't  care  about  anything,"  said  Emmie ;  "  I'm  go- 
ing to  marry  you." 

"  You  are  a  darling."     He  put  an  arm  round  her. 

She  looked  round;  there  was  nobody  to  watch. 

They  kissed. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  twenty,"  Emmie  said. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  heaven,"  he  said. 

Emmie  pressed  his  arm  tightly,  as  if  she  would  let  him 
feel  the  warmth  in  her  blood. 


338  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  At  present  I  don't  want  my  aunts  to  know.  Of 
course,  they  will  have  to  know  later,"  she  said. 

"  Look  here,  Emmie  mine."  He  stopped  and  held  her 
close  to  him.  "  How  would  you  like  to  run  with  me 
down  to  Staplemore  —  that's  where  the  pater's  living  is, 
and  let  him  marry  us.  I'll  arrange  it  if  you  like  —  get 
the  license,  and  all  that.  .  .  ." 

Emmie  looked  at  him.  He  was  very  handsome  in  her 
eyes,  and  such  a  gentleman !  His  voice  was  like  nobody 
else's  she  had  ever  heard.  His  father  had  been  to  Oxford 
University,  too,  and  wanted  Reginald  to  go.  .  .  .  Her 
husband  had  nearly  been  to  Oxford.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  ."     She  hesitated. 

"Don't  know  what,  darling?" 

She  pursed  her  lips. 

He  kissed  her. 

"  That's  all  right,  Mrs.  Reginald  Tame,"  he  said,  hold- 
ing her  very  close  to  him.  "  I'll  write  to  the  pater  and 
tell  him  all.  He'll  understand  —  or  we  could  get  mar- 
ried here,  for  that  matter.  With  a  special  license,  you 
know,  we  could  get  married  anywhere." 

"  Let's  leave  it  till  to-morrow,  dear,"  she  said.  "  I'll 
think  it  over.  It  might  be  simplest  to  stay  on  here  with 
my  aunts,  go  back  with  them,  and  then  when  Ada  and 
the  children  are  at  home  .  .  .  eh  ?  " 

"  As  you  like.  The  sooner  the  better.  I'll  get  the 
license,  eh  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

Emmie  showed  very  great  skill  in  keeping  her  inten- 
tions towards  Mr.  Reginald  Tame  well  hidden  from  her 
aunts.  They  really  thought  they  had  put  their  feet  down 
on  that  business  for  good  and  all.  Mrs.  Grass  gave  her- 
self credit  for  having  seen  the  affair  at  the  outset  and 
having  called  in  her  doughty  sisters.  Miss  Booke  felt 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  339 

that  she  alone  had  nipped  the  thing  in  the  bud  with  her 
straightforward,  frank  method,  and  Mrs.  Holten  im- 
agined that  by  her  tact  and  common  sense  she  had  effec- 
tively stopped  Emmie  from  doing  "a  very  foolish 
thing." 

Consequently,  a  week  after  they  had  all  returned  from 
Blackpool  and  were  going  about  their  usual  duties  in  the 
usual  way,  they  were  greatly  surprised  (and  with  the  sur- 
prise must  be  imagined  all  the  emotions  that  accompanied 
it)  to  receive  a  letter  from  Emmie  (almost  identical  to 
the  three  aunts),  which  ran: 

DEAR  AUNT  JANE  : 

I  want  to  inform  you  that  I  am  going  to  be  married  to 
Mr.  Tame.  I  would  have  told  you  before,  but  as  you 
seemed  to  disapprove  of  the  idea,  I  thought  it  best  not 
to  worry  you.  We  are  to  be  married  to-day.  I  hope  the 
marriage  won't  make  any  difference  to  our  feelings  to 
one  another  and  I  am  sure  I  needn't  tell  you  that  you  will 
be  as  welcome  at  Helston  House  as  always. 

Reginald  and  I  hope  to  be  back  in  about  ten  days. 
With  love. 

Your  affectionate  niece,  EMMIE. 

The  quotation  that  rang  through  the  respective  houses 
of  the  aunts  was  "  Reginald  and  I  — " 

Aunt  Jane  put  on  her  bonnet  and  almost  dashed  to 
Miss  Booke's,  where  Sophia  had  already  arrived. 

"Well!" 

"Well!" 

"  Did  you  ever !  " 

"  The  sly  thing !  .  .  .  Carrying  on  with  him  all  that 
time.  .  .  .  Going  out  with  us  and  pretending  she  was 
having  nothing  to  do  with  him  —  the  little  hypocrite. 
.  .  .  Emmie  Bollins  all  Qver.  .  .  ,  And  that  '  Reginald 
and  I '— " 


340  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Reginald  and  I." 

"  Reginald  and  I." 

The  disgust,  scorn  and  contempt  could  not  be  improved 
on.  The  ladies  said  it  with  all  the  emphasis  they  could 
command.  ..."  Reginald  and  I !  "  and  there  followed 
the  toss  of  the  head,  the  fierce  contempt  on  the  face,  and 
the  subsequent  expression  of  defeat. 

In  spite  of  what  they  had  done  and  said,  Emmie  had 
married  him.  .  .  . 

And  a  common  thought  moved  them :  What  about  T. 
Booke  &  Son?  .  .  . 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Booke  was  different  from  that  to 
the  aunts. 

MY  DEAR  GRANDPA: 

I  write  to  inform  you  that  I  am  going  to  be  married 
again.  I  think  I  did  my  duty  to  Tim  and  I  have  never 
forgotten  how  happy  we  were  together:  but  that  doesn't 
seem  to  me  a  reason  why  I  shouldn't  mary  again,  and  I 
have  found  some  one  that  I  care  for  wrho,  I  think,  will 
be  a  good  husband  to  me.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  that 
it  won't  make  any  difference  in  my  feeling  to  you  and  I 
hope  it  won't  make  any  difference  in  yours  towards  me. 
I  shall  always  remember  you  are  Tim's  father  and  you 
will  always  be  as  welcome  at  my  house  as  you  have  ever 
been.  You  have  always  been  very  kind  to  me  and  I  am 
very  grateful,  and  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  my  getting 
married  again  brought  any  coldness  between  us.  It  won't 
on  my  part,  I  assure  you. 

I  would  have  told  you  before,  but  I  had  decided  to 
keep  it  quiet  till  I  was  married.  I  hope  you  will  call  and 
see  Tim  and  Alice  while  I  am  away.  I  told  Ada  to  take 
them  to  see  you. 

With  love. 

Yours  affectionately, 

EMMIE. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  341 

There  was  also  another  letter. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER  AND  FATHER  : 

I  am  going  to  be  married  again  to  a  Mr.  Reginald 
Tame,  that  I  met  at  Blackpool.  He  is  a  perfect  gentle- 
man. His  father  is  a  clergyman  and  went  to  Oxford, 
and  Reginald  could  have  gone  there  too,  only  he  didn't 
want.  I  couldn't  tell  you  before  because  some  people 
might  have  made  a  lot  of  fuss  if  they  had  heard,  and  I 
want  to  be  able  to  say  I  told  them  when  I  told  you.  You 
know  why  .  .  .  three  aunts !  It  won't  make  any  differ- 
ence to  you  —  you  know  what  I  mean.  You'll  get  the 
money  as  before,  and  perhaps  more  soon;  and  Sarah  can 
always  have  some  when  she  wants.  We're  going  to  Lon- 
don for  the  honeymoon  —  only  about  a  week  or  ten  days, 
as  we've  both  just  been  to  Blackpool. 

We're  being  married  by  special  license  by  his  father, 
who  is  coming  to  a  friend's  church  in  Crewe.  Reginald's 
mother  and  sister  —  two  sisters  —  and  brother-in-law, 
who  is  also  a  clergyman,  are  coming  to  the  wedding.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you,  but  it  meant  new  clothes  and  that 
meant  telling  everybody,  so  I  thought  a  five-pound  note 
would  do  instead.  I  enclose  it  herewith.  I  am  being 
married  in  mauve  —  you'll  see  it  when  we  come  back.  I 
have  a  Gainsborough  hat  with  a  fine  white  ostrich  feather. 

With  best  love. 

Your  affectionate  daughter, 

EMMIE. 

The  news  spread  over  Ganton  very  quickly. 
"  Mrs.  Tim  Booke's  married  again." 
"Oh!  .  .  .  Who  to?" 

"  Some  chap  as  she  met  at  Blackpool,  I  hear." 
"Hatter?" 

"  No.     Don't  know  what  he  is.     I  understand  he's  well 
connected,  a  gentleman,  from  all  accounts." 
"  Any  money  ?  " 


342  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Don't  know.     She's  enough  in  any  case." 

"  Oh,  ay.  What's  she  going  to  do  with  the  busi- 
ness?" 

"  Haven't  heard.     Perhaps  he'll  run  it." 

"  Well,  she's  only  about  thirty.  .  .  .  Young  enough  to 
want  a  chap.  .  .  .  Th'  Bookes  won't  like  it." 

"  No  fear." 

Alice  Cannell's  comment  was : 

"  Mrs.  Tim  Booke  married  again.  .  .  .  Well,  I  always 
said  Emmie  would." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  seemed  to  Emmie  as  if  she  were  really  happier  on  her 
second  honeymoon  than  on  her  first.  Timidity  and 
apprehension  gave  way  to  an  unhampered  zest.  Besides 
Reginald  was  a  gentleman  and  Emmie  gloried  in  that. 
His  dress,  his  manners,  his  accent  had  a  fascinating  influ- 
ence on  her  and  she  felt  as  if  she  now  belonged  to  a  better 
world  than  that  in  which  she  had  hitherto  moved. 

They  stayed  at  a  good  hotel  in  the  west  end  and  Regi- 
nald ordered  waiters  with  perfect  ease,  and  held  her  dress 
as  she  got  in  and  out  of  hansoms  as  if  every  trick  of  that 
trade  was  habitual  to  him. 

Emmie  was  supremely  happy.  She  felt  she  had  got 
all  she  wanted  and  more  than  she  deserved  in  this  new 
husband  of  hers. 

She  observed  other  visitors  in  the  hotel  and  noted  dress 
and  jewellery  with  a  discerning  eye.  There  were  lots  of 
wealthy  and  handsome  women  there  but  Emmie  envied 
none. 

And  Reginald  seemed  to  improve  in  her  eyes.  He  was 
easy  tempered,  most  pleasant  with  the  tongue  and  charm- 
ing in  all  his  ways. 

They  discussed  the  future  slightly.  It  had  already  been 
decided  that  they  should  go  on  living  at  Helston  House, 
and  he  showed  Emmie  some  of  the  letters  he  had  received 
from  men  who  had  entered  into  correspondence  with  him 
respecting  his  plan  of  trading  with  the  East. 

But  Emmie  with  the  blood  flowing  warm  in  her  said  he 
needn't  "  be  in  a  hurry  to  close  with  any  of  these  corre- 
spondents. .  .  .  She  had  money  enough.  She  liked  a 

343 


344  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

man  to  work,  but  still  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  risk 
anything  and  if  this  trading  with  the  East  meant  that  he 
would  have  to  go  to  his  Japan  and  China  and  Borneo  for 

long  visits no  fear.  .  .  ."     And  as  he  held  her  to 

him  he  seemed  to  have  no  wish  to  leave  her  for  long  spells 
either. 

When  the  honeymoon  came  to  an  end  and  they  were 
at  Huston  station  ready  for  the  journey  home,  Emmie  was 
full  of  the  glow  of  gratitude  in  that  she  should  have  been 
allowed  to  be  so  happy.  She  was  proud  of  her  husband. 
She  wanted  to  let  Ganton  see  him.  She  had  not  made  a 
fool  of  herself  in  marrying  again :  she  had  mated  herself 
to  a  gentleman.  She  knew  some  of  them  would  be  jeal- 
ous; they  would  say  spiteful  things.  ...  It  didn't  mat- 
ter. She  was  married:  she  was  well  off:  she  owned  T. 
Booke  and  Son.  They  could  say  what  they  liked. 

As  the  cab  rolled  up  from  Ganton  Station  up  Manches- 
ter Road,  Emmie  kept  looking  out  of  the  window  as  if  she 
were  eager  to  see  and  be  seen.  She  pointed  out  Aunt 
Jane's  house  and  houses  of  friends. 

Reginald  held  his  wife's  hand  and  seemed  very  inter- 
ested in  all  the  information  he  received,  though  he  had 
paid  Ganton  a  visit  before  the  wedding. 

Ada  came  to  the  door  with  Tim  and  Alice,  and  Emmie 
almost  cried  as  she  saw  her  children.  It  was  just  a  wave 
of  some  tender  emotion  that  swept  through,  inexplicable 
as  the  wind  which  bloweth  where  it  listeth. 

She  kissed  them  both  and  they  were  full  of  a  wild 
excitement  at  seeing  their  mother  and  new  father,  the 
beloved  Mr.  Tame.  He  behaved  very  well. 

Emmie  said :     "  Here  is  your  new  daddy,  children." 

Mr.  Tame  lifted  Alice  up  and  kissed  her.  "  Are  you 
glad  to  see  me  ?  " 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  345 

"  Oh !  Yes,"  and  Alice  hugged  him  round  the  neck 
and  kissed  him  freely. 

"  That's  right.     You,  Tim?" 

"  Yes,"  and  he  put  up  his  face  to  be  kissed.  "  You  are 
going  to  live  here,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"I  am  glad!"  said  Alice. 

"  So  am  I,"  added  Tim.  "  Will  you  help  me  with  my 
sums?  Miss  Blake  says  it  doesn't  matter  if  we  get  shown 
at  home.  I'm  doing  practice." 

"  Glorious,"  said  Mr.  Tame.  "  We'll  practise  to- 
gether." 

Emmie,  in  showing  him  over  the  house,  felt  a  kind  of 
pride  but  at  the  same  time  a  small  anxiety  that  he  should 
approve.  He  had  criticised  some  of  the  decoration  in 
the  hotel  in  London  and  Emmie  had  suddenly  said  to  her- 
self :  "  I  wonder  what  he'll  think  of  home?  "  The  idea 
that  he  might  say  certain  things  were  in  bad  taste  had  not 
occurred  before,  and  she  almost  wished  she  had  got  new 
bits  of  carpet.  .  .  . 

But  he  behaved  most  tactfully,  letting  her  see  he  was 
very  pleased  with  everything. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  "  she  asked,  as  they  walked  upstairs. 

"  The  palace  of  dreams." 

"No,  really?" 

He  put  an  arm  round  her. 

"  Don't  you  see  you  make  everything  of  almost  no  ac- 
count beside  you?  It's  all  splendid.  I  imagine  walking 
into  this  house  and  calling  this  " —  he  drew  her  close  to 
him  — "  mine." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  it  won't  be  a  serious  business  to  get 
a  few  new  things  if  we  want.  Here's  the  bedroom." 

"Ours?" 

"  Yes.     Doesn't  it  seem  funny  me  showing  you  this?  " 


346  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  It's  all  funny,  darling.  I  am  afraid  every  moment  I 
shall  wake  up  and  find  it  all  a  dream.  I  am  really  awake, 
aren't  I?" 

He  saw  the  works  from  the  window  and  realised  their 
actuality.  They  seemed  to  give  him  a  sense  of  substan- 
tial security. 

Ernest  Mullins  came  in,  and  Emmie  introduced  the  two 
men.  She  felt  a  little  stirred  as  she  said : 

"  My  Manager,  Mr.  Mullins.  .  .  .  My  husband,  Mr. 
Tame." 

The  two  men  shook  hands. 

Ernest  said :     "  Pleased  to  meet  you." 

Reginald  replied :  "  I  am  certainly  very  pleased  to 
meet  my  wife's  manager." 

Ernest  gave  a  little  laugh  and  Emmie,  hoping  he  was 
quite  impressed  with  her  husband,  also  laughed  a  little. 

"  Ernest  manages  the  business,"  she  said. 

Reginald  offered  a  cigar  to  Ernest,  who  refused  it,  say- 
ing he  rarely  smoked  cigars. 

"  Well,  how  are  things  ?  "  Emmie  asked. 

"  All  right.  Wool's  gone  up  a  bit  and  I  think  we  shall 
have  to  get  that  far  blowing  machine  attended  to.  I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter,  but  it's  got  out  of  order  twice 
this  week." 

"  Oh!  .  .  .  How  are  orders  coming  in?  " 

"  Very  well.  We're  on  full  time  and  look  like  keep- 
ing it  up  for  a  long  while  yet." 

"  Did  Welton's  send  that  cheque?  " 

"  Yes  —  came  yesterday." 

"  Pay  it  in  the  bank." 

"  At  once." 

"  That's  right.  Mr.  Tame  would  like  to  see  round 
to-morrow  —  you  might  go  with  him,  Ernest." 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  347 

"  Right,  any  time." 

"  Any  time  will  suit  me,"  said  Mr.  Tame. 

They  arranged  to  go  round  in  the  morning  and  then 
Mr.  Tame  asked :  "  Do  you  do  any  business  with  the 
East?" 

"  East  ?  "  repeated  Ernest.     "  What  —  Turkey  ?  " 

"  I  was  rather  thinking  of  Japan,  China,  the  Dutch 
Islands." 

Ernest  shook  his  head  as  if  the  suggestion  were  rather 
weird. 

"  Yet  there  must  be  hats  sold  there?  " 

"  Um-n."  Ernest  seemed  to  regard  the  statement  as 
of  small  moment.  He  was  saying  to  himself  that  Mr. 
Tame  knew  nothing  about  hats  and  couldn't  teach  him 
(Ernest)  anything. 

Mr.  Tame  read  something  of  this  in  Ernest's  attitude. 

"  Still,  you  know  your  business,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  We  should  do,"  replied  Ernest  with  a  laugh  and  in 
a  tone  and  style  that  suggested  Mr.  Tame  had  better  think 
twice  before  meddling  with  a  business  he  did  not  under- 
stand. 

Reginald  nodded  and  smoked  his  cigar. 

As  Ernest  was  leaving,  Emmie  said :  "  At  ten  o'clock 
then,  Ernest,  Mr.  Tame  will  come." 

"  Right.     Good-night,  Mr.  Tame." 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Mullins." 

"  Good-night,  Ernest,"  said  Emmie. 

"  Good-night,  Mrs.  Tame." 

Emmie  nodded  pleasantly. 

"  He's  been  a  very  good  manager,  Reginald,"  said 
Emmie,  when  Ernest  had  gone. 

"Looks  honest  and  reliable." 

"  He  is  that.  I  think  it's  time  we  had  tea ;  don't  you 
want  some,  dear?  " 


348  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  I  suppose  I  do,  but  I  still  feel  as  if  I  were  wandering 
about  in  a  palace  of  dreams  — " 

Emmie  smiled  lovingly. 

He  kissed  her. 

"  How  dare  you?  "  he  whispered. 

She  kissed  him.  She  was  supremely  happy.  Her 
thoughts  now  were  all  wound  round  him.  She  wanted 
him  to  be  comfortable,  to  be  satisfied  with  the  house,  with 
the  place,  with  the  people.  She  wanted  to  dazzle  him  if 
possible  so  that  he  would  love  her  more  for  she  was  so 
very  much  in  love  with  him. 

"Where  are  the  children?"  he  asked. 

"  In  the  kitchen  with  Ada.  I'm  going  to  get  tea  — 
we'll  have  it  here." 

"  Here  "  was  the  dining-room. 

"  Yes."  He  wondered  for  a  moment  if  there  was 
another  room,  or  if  tea  was  occasionally  served  in  the 
drawing-room. 

"  The  children  and  I  often  have  our  meals  in  the 
kitchen,"  Emmie  said.  "  Come  and  have  a  look  at  it." 

She  put  her  arm  in  his  as  they  walked  the  little  space 
from  the  dining-room  to  the  kitchen. 

Both  Tim  and  Alice  rushed  to  Mr.  Tame  the  moment 
they  saw  him. 

"  Father,"  Alice  said  in  his  ears. 

"  That's  right." 

"  I  was  going  to  say  father,  too,"  said  Tim. 

"  Say  it,  Tim,"  Mr.  Tame  suggested. 

"  Father." 

"Good!     Doing  lessons,  Tim?  " 

"  Not  yet.  I  don't  do  them  till  after  tea ;  we  haven't 
much  to-night  —  some  spellings  and  to  write  a  short  ac- 
count of  the  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents." 

"  I  must  help  you  with  the  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  349 

"  And  will  you  help  me,  too,  Father?  "  Alice  asked. 

"  You  haven't  got  lessons  to  do,  surely  ?  " 

"  No,  but  when  I  have." 

"  Of  course." 

"  These  are  my  dollies,"  said  Alice.  "  That's  Ruby, 
that's  Rose,  that's  Jane,  and  that's  Dorothy." 

"What  a  family!" 

Alice  smiled  proudly. 

Emmie,  watching  the  scene,  was  delighted  to  see  her 
husband  and  the  children  on  such  good  terms. 

"  It's  a  big  kitchen,  isn't  it?  "  she  said. 

"  It  is  indeed  —  as  good  a  room  as  any  in  the  house." 

"  Yes,  well  it's  been  used  most.  Now  I'm  going  to 
get  tea.  Ada,  lay  the  table  in  the  dining-room." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bollins  called  in  the  evening.  They 
were  both  dressed  in  their  best  and  endeavoured  to  make 
a  good  impression  on  their  new  son-in-law  whose  father 
had  been  to  Oxford  University.  They  would  probably 
have  preferred  Emmie  to  have  remained  Mrs.  Booke,  but 
since  she  hadn't  the  only  thing  was  to  make  the  best  of 
the  situation. 

Mr.  Tame  was  very  pleasant  and  both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bollins  went  home  with  a  distinct  liking  for  him.  He 
went  to  the  door  with  them,  took  Mrs.  Bollins  by  the 
arm,  gave  Mr.  Bollins  two  cigars,  and  bade  them  good- 
night charmingly. 

There  was  no  visit  that  day  from  either  Mr.  Booke  or 
any  of  the  aunts.  Emmie  said  to  herself :  "  They  don't 
want  me  to  think  they're  in  a  hurry  to  come  and  see  my 
new  husband." 

As  time  went  on  and  Reginald  smoked  and  read  the 
evening  paper,  Emmie  attended  to  some  household  duties. 

The  children  had  been  in  bed  some  time.  Ada  had 
gone  to  bed.  There  was  an  air  of  quietness  in  the  house. 


350  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Emmie,  accustomed  to  managing  the  house,  had  always 
seen  to  the  locking  of  the  doors  and  the  fastening  of  the 
windows.  Moreover,  being  her  own  mistress,  she  had 
naturally  gone  to  bed  at  whatever  time  she  chose  — 
within  reasonable  limits.  In  a  town  like  Canton  one 
cannot  do  exactly  as  one  wishes.  Other  people  are  con- 
sidered. There  is  a  public  opinion  bred  in  the  minds  of 
the  average  resident  of  certain  pretentions.  For  instance, 
if  your  light  is  kept  burning  late  too  frequently  that 
becomes  (or  may  become  in  the  opinion  of  the  imaginer) 
a  topic  for  discussion.  It  takes  this  form:  Mrs.  X. 
doesn't  mind  her  gas  bill  —  which  suggests  waste  and  a 
disregard  of  economy.  Or,  "  Mrs.  X.  sits  up  late  —  she 
can't  be  working  till  this  hour.  If  she  is,  she's  a  bad 
manager."  There  is  apparently  no  escape.  Of  course, 
you  may  ignore  the  comment  or  be  indifferent  to  it :  that 
makes  a  difference. 

Emmie  had  been  influenced  by  her  mother  and  her 
aunts.  She  really  had  paid  homage  to  Public  Opinion  or 
the  God  called  "  What  Will  People  Say?  "  and  now  she 
felt  as  if  her  absolute  freedom  of  worship  was  a  little  in 
the  balance.  Things  were  different,  of  course,  but  even 
now  she  could  not  wholly  escape  from  the  idea  that  peo- 
ple might  talk  if  they  saw  the  light  burning  late.  .  .  . 

And  there  was  another  feeling:  Who  was  going  to 
decide  when  it  was  bed  time  ?  She  was  quite  prepared  to 
allow  that  province  to  be  her  husband's,  but  he  sat  there 
as  if  he  might  go  on  sitting  there  all  night.  .  .  .  Was  he 
waiting  for  her?  Should  she  make  a  move?  She  did 
not  quite  like  to  be  the  one  to  suggest  going  to  bed  the 
first  night  they  reached  home.  .  .  .  Tim  had  always 
taken  the  lead,  in  a  very  easy  and  comfortable  way,  in 
matters  in  which  they  were  both  concerned.  Reginald 
was  not  like  Tim  in  many  ways. 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  351 

"  Ten  o'clock  you  are  going  to  see  over  the  works, 
Reginald,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  said,  more  to  bring  him  to  a  sense 
of  the  time  then  than  for  the  sake  of  information. 

He  put  down  the  paper. 

"  Yes,  ten,  my  darling,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  most 
affectionately.  "  Are  you  coming,  too  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so  —  you  don't  want  me  to." 

"  Not  at  all  necessary,  if  you  don't  want:  and  I  expect 
you've  seen  over  the  place  often  enough." 

"  Yes." 

She  sat  in  the  chair  doing  nothing,  thinking  if  she 
started  saying  anything  of  that  kind  he  might  be  less 
inclined  for  bed,  or  might  imagine  she  wished  to  stay 
up. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  He  felt  curious  in 
his  new  home. 

"  You  know,  Emmie,"  he  said,  "  I  think  there  ought  to 
be  a  good  market  in  the  East  for  hats;  I  don't  see  why 
not.  .  .  ." 

"  Um-m,"  Emmie  was  saying  to  herself.  "  Oh,  let's 
go  to  bed  and  not  bother  about  hats  now,"  but  softening 
it,  imaginatively  putting  an  arm  round  his  neck  and  plead- 
ing. Then  quickly  the  thought  came:  Love  is  very 
sweet  and  all  that,  but  if  you  can  get  your  husband  into 
the  way  that  makes  things  run  smoothly  and  suit  you,  so 
much  the  better.  .  .  .  And  the  next  moment  she  thought : 
"  Bless  him !  I'd  stay  up  all  night  if  he  wanted  me 
to." 

"  Emmie,"  he  said,  "  you're  sleepy." 

She  felt  stirred  at  the  way  he  said  it.  There  was  a 
ring  in  it. 

"  Am  I?  "  she  said,  smiling  at  him. 

"  Yes.  I  expect  it's  early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise  here, 
eh?" 


352  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"Oh!  not  that  early:  only  I've  been  in  the  habit  of 
getting  into  bed  by  half-past  ten  —  or  before  eleven  at 
the  latest." 

"  Eleven.  .  .  .  It's  that  now.  Come  on :  I  expect 
we're  both  a  bit  fagged  with  the  day's  travelling." 

Lest  he  should  hesitate  further,  Emmie  discreetly  said : 
"Will  you  lock  up?" 

"Lock  up  ...  Lord!  I  never  locked  up  in  my  life. 
You  do  it,  darling.  I  expect  you'll  do  it  ever  so  much 
better  than  I  shall." 

Emmie,  glad  to  feel  that  at  last  they  were  going  to 
bed,  went  to  the  front  door,  side  door,  and  back  door, 
and  pushed  bolts  and  turned  keys.  She  looked  at  the 
kitchen  grate  to  see  if  the  fire  was  out  or  harmless,  then 
at  the  windows  to  see  if  the  catches  were  all  fastened. 

When  she  had  made  her  round  she  came  back  to  the 
dining-room. 

"  I'm  ready,"  she  said. 

He  beckoned  her  playfully. 

She  felt  very  tired  and  wanted  very  badly  to  go  to  bed, 
but  the  hint  of  love  in  Reginald's  attitude  made  her  walk 
to  him  with  a  kind  of  fierce  joy,  a  mingling  of  sweet  and 
bitter. 

He  drew  her  to  him. 

"  And  did  you  think  I  was  going  to  be  left  alone  when 
I  turned  this  light  out?  In  the  dark  with  the  loved  one 
and  I  groping  to  a  door-way.  .  .  ." 

Emmie  looked  at  him,  wondering  whether  he  were  act- 
ing or  really  serious. 

"  Just  imagine,"  he  went  on,  "  I  with  her  in  my  arms 
—  her,  mind  you  —  the  her  of  all  hers  " — he  kissed  her 
— "  the  light  is  out.  .  .  .  Phew.  .  .  ." 

"  Silly !  "  she  said,  feeling  very  happy.  "  Do  you  real- 
ise I'm  an  old  married  woman  ?  "  She  felt  she  could  try 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  353 

that  on  him  now  and  her  sleepiness  seemed  to  have  van- 
ished as  with  a  wizard's  wand. 

"  Old  married  woman.  .  .  ."  He  lifted  her  chin  and 
bent  back  her  head.  "  Not  much  of  the  old  married 
woman  about  you  —  you  darling." 

He  knew  he  stirred  her.  Her  breast  heaved  and  fell 
and  her  eyes  were  brilliant.  He  kissed  her  on  both 
cheeks  and  then  on  the  lips. 

Emmie  thought  Tim  was  all  right,  but  this  is  Heaven. 
And  I  haven't  got  to  try  any  dodges,  and  my  figure's  my 
own.  .  .  . 

Reginald  turned  out  the  light. 

"  And  now  to  bed,  as  Mr.  Pepys  would  write,"  he  said. 

Emmie  realised  that  her  husband  could  make  her  for- 
get fatigue  and  almost  anything  if  he  wanted.  .  .  . 

Reginald  had  certainly  got  the  art  of  dressing  taste- 
fully and  Emmie  was  very  glad  he  looked  so  well  in  his 
clothes;  but  she  wondered  the  next  morning  if  he  were 
going  to  wear  a  clean  collar  every  day  —  and  surely  not 
a  clean  shirt  too! 

She  was  down  first  and  told  Ada  breakfast  was  to  be 
served  in  the  dining-room. 

The  children  were  very  glad  to  see  "  father,"  and  he 
was  really  very  nice  with  them.  Moreover,  he  seemed  to 
be  agreeable  with  them  naturally,  and  not  as  if  he  were 
forcing  himself  to  do  something  he  did  not  like. 

At  ten  o'clock,  Emmie,  who  was  now  wearing  an  apron 
and  making  the  beds,  came  downstairs  and  said :  "  I  ex- 
pect Ernest  will  wait  for  you  in  the  office,  Reginald." 

"Oh.  ...  Then  I'll  go  to  him."  He  put  down  the 
Guardian  and  said :  "  Which  way,  dear  ?  " 

Emmie  showed  him  the  way  and  Ernest  was  waiting 
for  him  in  the  yard. 


354  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Ernest  had  to  admit  that  Mr.  Tame  took  a  very  keen 
interest  in  what  he  was  shown.  His  questions  were  sen- 
sible and  business-like.  At  the  end  of  the  tour,  when 
they  had  visited  almost  every  room  in  the  factory,  the 
two  men  stood  in  Ernest's  little  office  which  adjoined  the 
counting-house. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Tame,  "  it  seems  to  me  hat-making 
is  a  question  of  turn-over  and  enterprise." 

Ernest  nodded. 

"  If,"  said  Mr.  Tame,  "  the  turn-over  were  doubled 
certain  fixed  charges  would  not  be  increased  at  all; 
hats  could  be  sold  cheaper  and  there  would  be  a  bigger 
profit." 

Again  Ernest  nodded. 

"Of  course,  every  hat  manufacturer  could  say  that," 
he  said. 

"  Quite  true,  and  why  not?  " 

Ernest  moved  a  little  uneasily. 

"  Easier  said  than  done,  I  suppose." 

"  I  find  that  the  big  firms  in  anything  are  those  who 
won't  stand  still,  who  go  ahead,  who,  when  they  see  a 
thing  is  sound  and  profitable,  go  for  it  —  but  go  for  it 
properly." 

"  Um  .  .  .  um.  .  .  .  I've  seen  one  or  two  hatters 
come  a  cropper  through  going  for  things  as  they  thought." 

Ernest  seemed  to  talk  as  if  he  were  somewhat  antago- 
nistic. 

Mr.  Tame  nodded. 

"  Well,  thanks  very  much,"  he  said,  "  for  showing  me 
over.  I  hope  I  haven't  interfered  with  your  work  at 
all." 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  been  of  any  assistance,"  Ernest 
replied,  won  to  a  little  more  pleasantness  by  Mr.  Tame's 
agreeable  ways. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  355 

Emmie  was  in  the  kitchen,  with  a  big  white  apron  in 
front  of  her  when  Reginald  returned  from  his  visit  round 
the  works.  She  was  busy  making  pies,  and  kept  dipping 
her  hand  in  a  little  basin  to  take  out  flour,  to  sprinkle  on 
the  paste  which  she  promptly  rolled  with  a  very  clean 
looking  wooden  roller. 

She  smiled  as  her  husband  came  in. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  works?  " 

"  Very  interesting,  most  beautiful  hatter.  I  have  an 
idea  you  could  do  a  lot  more  business  if  your  man  Ernest 
had  a  little  more  enterprise." 

"Oh  ...  he's  very  reliable." 

"  Yes.  But  the  people  who  get  on,  the  people  who  do 
really  big  things,  you  know,  are  something  more  than  re- 
liable. Men  that  you  can  trust  ought  really  to  be  cheap. 
It  means  keeping  in  the  same  old  rut,  and  being  careful 
not  to  upset  the  cart,  but  the  same  old  ruts  lead  to  the 
same  old  places,  my  dear  little  Emmie.  .  .  .  I've  seen 
firms  grow  —  seen  them  grow  from  small  things  to  big. 
It's  when  they  open  their  eyes  and  find  markets  where 
they  never  dreamt  of  them  that  they  begin  to  go  ahead." 

Emmie  rolled  her  paste. 

"  This  is  an  old  established  firm." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  has  done  very  well,  too." 

"  Also  ran,  my  darling." 

"  Also  ran.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  love.  ...  It  has  struck  me,  Emmie,  that  there 
is  not  merely  a  nice  income  in  this  business  —  but  wealth 
—  big  wealth  —  wealth  beyond  the  dreams  of  avar- 
ice." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  object  to  the  wealth  coming  —  if  we 
don't  spoil  what  we've  got." 

"  You  don't  do  that.     Fresh  markets  are  all  to  the 


356  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

good  surely.  Why,  there  are  markets  in  the  East,  for 
instance,  that  could  double  the  output  of  this  factory 
easily." 

"  Did  you  say  anything  to  Ernest  about  this  ?  " 

"  Well,  Ernest  gave  me  the  impression  of  being  in- 
clined to  the  critical  side.  He  was  very  willing  to  show 
me  all  there  was  to  be  seen  and  tell  me  all  I  wished  to 
know :  but  I  fancy  I  caught  a  hint  in  his  mind  of  the 
man  who  wondered  what  this  husband  of  his  mistress  was 
really  after  —  should  I  do  him  out  of  his  job  —  some- 
thing of  that  kind." 

"Oh  ...  Reginald!" 

"  True,  oh !  Emmie,  my  darling.  However,  we  can 
make  allowances  for  the  importance  of  being  Ernest, 
still  there's  the  problem.  I  expect  these  works  have  done 
fairly  well  and  so  everybody  is  content  if  they  don't  do 
any  worse." 

"  I  am,"  said  Emmie,  quickly. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked,  coming  near  to  her. 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  tart  —  red-currant  and  raspberry : 
do  you  like  it?  " 

"  I  like  it,  but  I  wonder  if  I  shall  have  the  impudence 
to  eat  what  my  blessed  wife  has  made." 

"Silly!" 

He  stroked  her  cheek. 

Emmie  felt  the  difference  between  her  two  husbands. 
Tim  loved  her  and  was  always  kind  and  considerate,  but 
he  never  fussed  her  in  quite  the  same  charming  way  that 
Reginald  did.  And  she  loved  this  fussing  and  these 
pretty  speeches. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  now?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am  going  to  enquire  into  the  export  trade  in  hats, 
darling." 

Emmie  looked  at  him.     She  was  pleased  and  fright- 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  357 

ened  a  little  —  pleased  that  he  was  taking  such  an  interest 
in  her  business,  and  frightened  lest  things  happened.  .  .  . 
She  had  au  fond  the  woman's  great  belief  in  security. 

"How?    Where?" 

"  Somewhere.     I  think  I'll  run  down  to  Manchester." 

"  Dinner  is  at  one." 

"  Oh  .  .  .  with  the  red-currant  and  raspberry  tart. 
.  .  .  Couldn't  miss  it  for  all  the  trade  of  the  East.  I'll 
go  to-morrow,  darling,  and  take  a  stroll  round  Canton's 
streets  this  morning." 

At  that  moment  the  yard  door  creaked  and  Emmie, 
looking  through  the  window,  to  see  who  opened  the  door, 
waited  for  a  moment  and  then  said :  "  Grandpa !  .  .  .  It's 
Grandpa,"  she  said,  and  at  once  put  down  the  paste  and 
roller,  wiped  her  hands  on  a  towel  near  and  went  to  greet 
Mr.  Booke. 

She  opened  the  door  as  he  came  up  the  steps  and  said : 
"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  and  kissed  him  as  he  entered. 

He  betrayed  very  little  emotion :  it  was  difficult  to  say 
if  he  were  moved  or  not. 

He  said :  "  I  thought  I'd  come  and  see  you  and  your 
new  husband." 

One  might  have  detected  a  trace  of  reproach  in  the 
tone  of  the  last  two  words:  they  were  not  cordially  ut- 
tered. 

"  Here  I  am,"  said  Reginald  very  pleasantly,  and  Mr. 
Booke,  a  little  surprised,  stood  his  ground  stolidly. 

Reginald  held  out  his  hand. 

Emmie  said :  "  That's  Mr.  Tame,  Grandpa,"  in  a  tone 
that  was  just  a  little  charged  with  emotion,  as  if  she 
pleaded  delicately  for  friendship. 

Mr.  Booke  very  slowly  put  out  his  hand  and  eyed  Regi- 
nald keenly  and  critically. 

"  You  soon  made  up  your  minds,"  he  said. 


358  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Yes,"  replied  Reginald,  "  there  was  no  wisdom  in 
delay." 

"  Oh !  .  .  .  Let's  hope  not.  May  I  ask  what  your 
line  of  business  is?" 

"  I've  been  travelling  in  the  East." 

"  On  commission  ?  " 

"  Partly,  and  partly  on  salary." 

"  Made  a  lot  o'  money,  I  expect." 

Reginald  struck  an  easy  attitude. 

"  There's  plenty  to  be  made  in  the  East." 

"  Chaps  as  are  steady  and  work  hard  if  they've  got 
level  heads  can  make  money  anywhere.  Have  you  got 
a  business  now  ?  " 

"  I  was  about  to  set  up  as  a  merchant  —  buying  from 
and  selling  to  the  East." 

"  Oh  .  .  .  and  got  married  instead." 

"  Got  married  —  not  necessarily  instead,"  said  Regi- 
nald very  pleasantly. 

"  Will  you  stay  to  dinner,  Grandpa?  "  said  Emmie,  not 
liking  Reginald  to  be  too  closely  cross-examined  about  his 
business. 

"  No,  thank  you.     You  got  enough  to  feed." 

"  Well,  sit  down  a  minute." 

"  I  won't  stay.  I  wanted  to  see  you  and  your  .  .  . 
new  husband.  Let's  see,  what  did  you  say  you  were 
doing  now,  Mr.  .  .  .  Mr.  .  .  ." 

"  Tame." 

"Tame,  ay?" 

"  I  was,  as  I  said,  about  to  set  up  in  business  as  an 
Eastern  merchant." 

"  Oh !  Ay.  .  .  .  And  got  married  while  you  were 
doing  it.  ...  Lucky  your  wife's  got  a  home  and  an  in- 
come." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  359 

"  I'm  very  lucky  to  have  got  such  a  wife,"  said  Regi- 
nald. 

"  Ay,  I  agree  with  you." 

"  Have  you  been  away  yet,  Grandpa  ?  "  asked  Emmie, 
desiring  to  drag  the  conversation  into  a  channel  that 
would  lead  them  away  from  a  discussion  of  her  husband's 
business,  which  was  apparently  something  at  which 
Grandpa  could  direct  his  quiet  sarcasm. 

Mr.  Booke  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  yet.     The  children  all  right?  " 

"Oh!     Yes." 

"  From  all  accounts  you  were  very  clever  at  Blackpool. 
You  two." 

Reginald  did  not  seem  to  mind  Grandpa's  conversation 
very  much ;  but  his  nature  was  of  that  easy,  comfortable 
kind  that  is  not  quickly  depressed.  Emmie  could  bear 
up  to  a  point  and  then  she  retorted;  but  she  had  never 
retorted  yet  to  Mr.  Booke,  and  at  this  time  she  felt  he 
was  to  be  permitted  to  say  a  few  nasty  things  if  he  wished. 

Reginald  was  saying  to  himself :  "  Fine  old  chap  .  .  . 
could  give  anybody  Hell  if  he  wanted  .  .  .  doesn't  like 
me  .  .  .  perhaps  natural  .  .  .  has  a  tongue  .  .  .  doesn't 
mind  if  he  makes  things  a  bit  uncomfortable  .  .  .  lucky 
your  wife's  got  a  home  and  income — -the  devil!  ...  It 
is  lucky  all  the  same.  .  .  ." 

Reginald  almost  had  a  smile  on  his  face  as  if  he  could 
see  the  little  comedy  of  soul  being  played  there  in  that 
kitchen  with  an  eye,  a  mind  undisturbed. 

Emmie  said,  in  answer  to  the  charge  of  cleverness : 

"  You  have  to  be  clever  sometimes,  Grandpa." 

He  took  time  over  his  replies. 

"  Ay,  you  can  be  too  clever  sometimes.  ...  I  like 
straightforward  people  myself." 


360  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  I  think  we  all  do,"  said  Reginald  quickly,  but  very 
pleasantly. 

Grandpa  felt  the  hit. 

Emmie  dashed  in  with :  "  We  shouldn't  have  hidden 
it  from  anybody,  only  I  wasn't  going  to  be  lectured  and 
made  miserable  about  it.  If  we  wanted  to  get  married 
why  should  other  people  keep  lecturing  us  ?  " 

After  a  pause  Mr.  Booke  said :  "  Well,  it's  done  now. 
You  must  make  the  best  of  it." 

When  he  had  gone  Reginald  said  to  Emmie: 
"  Grandpa  is  not  too  benevolently  disposed." 

"  Well,  you  must  not  mind.  Tim  was  his  only  son  .  .  . 
and  these  works  were  his." 

"  I  don't  mind  at  all,"  said  Reginald.  "  These  things 
are  like  fungi  and  wet  days  and  finding  yourself  without 
tobacco  —  you  must  put  up  with  'em  and  when  you've 
got  a  darling  wife  to  help  you  to  put  up  with  'em  — " 

He  had  now  got  Emmie's  face  in  his  hands  and  he 
kissed  her. 

"  Let  me  get  on  with  this  pie,"  she  said,  "  or  we  shan't 
have  dinner  by  two  o'clock."  She  put  her  hand  on  the 
oven  door.  "  And  that  oven's  drawing  beautifully." 

After  tea  Emmie  and  Reginald  had  another  ordeal  for 
the  three  aunts  called. 

They  came  to  the  front  door  and  Ada  let  them  in. 
Their  expressions  were  those  of  people  who  had  sternly 
adopted  a  certain  attitude  and  that  not  an  affable  one. 
Their  backs  were  stiff.  Mrs.  Grass  even  refused  to  break 
into  a  smile. 

Emmie  and  Reginald  rose  as  Mrs.  Holten  led  the  sis- 
ters into  the  dining-room. 

Emmie  went  towards  them  with  a  little  more  than  her 
usual  warmth  as  if  she  would  make  up  for  the  lack  of 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  361 

confidence,  but  was  chilled  at  once.  There  were  no  kisses 
exchanged.  They  all  shook  hands.  "  How  do  you  do? 
.  .  .  How  do  you  do  ?  ...  How  do  you  do  ?  " 

Reginald  said  cheerily : 

"  I  think  we  have  met  before,"  to  Mrs.  Grass  and  Miss 
Booke. 

Mrs.  Grass  said,  "  Yes,"  and  relaxed  a  trifle.  Miss 
Booke  also  said,  "  Yes,"  but  as  if  she  had  been  keeping 
the  word  on  ice. 

"  Mrs.  Holten,  isn't  it?  "  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand 
to  that  lady. 

Emmie  said,  "  Yes,"  and  wondered  what  was  going  to 
happen. 

Mrs.  Holten  shook  hands  very  coldly,  and  then  said : 

"  We  may  as  well  be  frank,  Emmie ;  we  don't  think  you 
treated  us  well." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Emmie,  and  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation they  all  occupied  chairs,  but  in  such  a  fashion  as  to 
suggest  a  temporary  discomfort. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  continued  Emmie,  "  but  you  didn't 
seem  to  approve  at  Blackpool,  and  so  I  thought  it  best  to 
keep  the  whole  thing  quiet." 

"  Cowardice,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

"  Call  it  what  you  like,"  said  Emmie.  "  Perhaps  it 
was.  But  if  I  had  told  you  in  Blackpool,  you  —  well,  I 
don't  know  what  you  would  have  said  or  done,  but  I 
don't  think  you  would  havfe  enjoyed  the  holiday  as  much 
as  you  did." 

"  That,"  said  Mrs.  Holten,  "  is  a  weak  excuse.  We 
are  Tim's  aunts.  You  wouldn't  be  in  this  house  now  if 
you  hadn't  married  our  nephew,  and  the  least  you  could 
have  done  was  to  have  told  us  when  you  were  engaged 
to  be  married  again." 

"  The  very  least,"  added  Miss  Booke. 


362  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  After  all,"  said  Mrs.  Grass,  "  we  have  your  interests 
at  heart,  Emmie." 

"  Well,  I'm  very  happy,  Aunt  Sophia." 

"  Very  happy  .  .  .  and  Tim  scarcely  cold,"  said  Miss 
Booke,  sitting  bolt  upright  and  looking  at  the  window 
curtains  towards  Christ  Church  graveyard. 

Emmie  bit  her  lip.     She  took  refuge  in  silence. 

Reginald  to  himself  said,  "  What  a  corpse!  " 

"  You  shouldn't  forget,  Emmie,"  continued  Mrs.  Hoi- 
ten,  as  if  some  set  remarks  had  been  decided  upon  before- 
hand as  proper  and  fit  for  the  occasion,  "  that  as  all  you 
possess  comes  from  our  family,  from  the  Bookes,  we  natu- 
rally looked  to  you  to  treat  us  with  some  consideration." 

"  Consideration !  "  repeated  Aunt  Jane,  withering  the 
word. 

"  We  had  a  right  to  expect  that.  ...  In  fact,  I  can't 
think  of  any  nice  minded  woman  in  your  position  who 
would  have  suddenly  written  to  us,  under  the  circum- 
stances, to  tell  us  so  coolly  she  was  married." 

"  For  the  second  time,"  added  Aunt  Jane  grimly,  sit- 
ting with  folded  arms. 

"  Yes  ...  so  soon  after  Tim's  death,"  said  Mrs.  Hoi- 
ten,  with  an  approach  at  solemnity  and  feeling. 

"  It  wouldn't  have  happened,"  said  Emmie,  "  if  you 
hadn't  gone  on  at  Blackpool." 

"  Gone  on,"  snapped  Miss  Booke ;  "  what  do  you  mean 
by  gone  on  ?  " 

"If  you  hadn't  said  so  much,"  said  Emmie,  a  little 
warmly.  Her  face  was  flushed  now  and  she  was  pre- 
paring to  hit  back. 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment,  ladies,"  said  Reginald,  "  I  am 
interested  in  this  conversation.  After  all,  it  is  surely 
not  a  very  serious  thing  that  our  engagement  was  kept 
secret  from  you.  Emmie  has  told  you  the  reason.  Of 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  363 

course,  we  are  sorry  if  you  feel  hurt  —  very  sorry.  We 
apologise.  There  was  no  intention  of  hurting  you:  it 
was  merely  to  keep  to  the  line  of  what  was  most  agreeable 
we  did,  I  think  —  at  least  Emmie  did  —  let  you  know  as 
soon  as  anybody  else  knew  — " 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Miss  Booke,  moving  a  little  hori- 
zontally on  her  chair,  for  she  could  not  improve  her  per- 
pendicular attitude,  "  but  as  you  have  thought  fit,  Mr. 
Tame,  to  interfere,  I  suppose  you  won't  mind  answering  a 
few  questions." 

Mr.  Tame  smiled  very  politely. 

"  It  will,  of  course,"  he  said,  "  depend  to  some  extent 
what  those  questions  are." 

Miss  Booke,  feeling  he  had  scored  a  small  point  by  his 
manner,  moved  again  on  her  chair. 

"  Family  questions,"  she  said  as  she  thought,  smartly. 
"  As  you  are  one  of  the  family,  I  think  we  have  a  right 
to  know  something  .  .  .  about  you." 

"  I  am  quite  willing  to  tell  you  anything  about  myself 
that  you  have  a  right  to  know." 

"  Will  you  tell  us  what  you  are  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  might  describe  myself  as  a  traveller." 

"  A  commercial  traveller  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  ladies  looked  at  each  other.  They  did  not  despise 
commercial  travellers,  having  too  much  knowledge  of 
business  and  enough  common  sense;  but  this  was  an  ex- 
ceptional case.  They  felt  themselves  at  liberty  to  find 
holes  where  they  could  in  this  present  matter. 

"  And  are  you  travelling  for  —  a  firm  now  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Out  of  work  ?  "  asked  Miss  Booke,  quickly. 

Emmie  began  to  look  uncomfortable.  Even  Reginald 
was  piqued. 


364  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  I  have  been  travelling  in  the  East  —  Japan,  China, 
the  F.  M.  S.,  Java  —  all  the  Dutch  East  Indies,  and  I 
came  back  to  set  up  in  business  for  myself  as  a  merchant." 

That  sounded  better. 

Miss  Booke  was  bold. 

"  Then  you  have  money?  " 

"  Some,"  he  replied. 

"  I  suppose  it  would  be  indiscreet  to  ask  how  much  ?  " 
ventured  Mrs.  Holten,  just  a  trifle  diffidently. 

"  I  think  it  would,"  he  replied  very  urbanely,  and 
Emmie  felt  as  if  she  could  clap  her  hands.  She  wanted 
to  shriek  at  her  aunts  for  their  prying,  interfering  ways. 

"  Emmie,  by  the  death  of  her  late  husband,"  said  Miss 
Booke,  "  has  inherited  money  and  these  works  —  T. 
Booke  and  Son.  Of  course,  it's  very  nice  for  a  man 
without  money  to  come  into  a  bit  by  marrying  her;  but 
we  shall  always  look  on  what  Emmie  has  as  Booke  money. 
It  was  made  by  Bookes  and  ought  to  be  kept  for  Bookes. 
There  are  two  children,  you  know,  by  Emmie's  first  hus- 
band, and  all  poor  Tim  left  should  be  theirs.  ...  If  only 
Tim  had  known  he  would  have  left  a  different  will  — " 

Emmie  burst  into  tears. 

Reginald  went  to  her  at  once. 

"It's  all  right,  darling,"  he  muttered.  "Buck  up! 
It  doesn't  matter."  He  turned  to  the  aunts.  "  I  think, 
if  you  don't  mind,  we'll  close  this  topic :  it  isn't  very 
pleasant  for  Emmie,  and  I  must  admit  you  can't  be  ac- 
cused of  a  lack  of  frankness." 

"  It's  better  than  being  hypocrites,"  snapped  Aunt  Jane. 

Mrs.  Holten  rose  and  the  other  two  took  the  signal 
from  her. 

Mrs.  Holten,  holding  her  hands  in  front  of  her  and 
standing  very  erect,  addressed  Emmie :  "  We  shan't 
worry  you  any  more  now,  Emmie.  We  shall  keep  friends 


AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN  365 

for  Tim's  sake  —  and  the  children's.  We  shall  be  glad 
to  see  you,  but  you  mustn't  think  we  approve.  We  have 
said  what  we  have  said  to-day  because  we  thought  it  our 
duty." 

"  A  duty  to  poor  dead  Tim,"  added  Miss  Booke. 

Emmie  was  almost  sobbing,  but  Reginald  by  her  side 
soothed  her. 

"  I  will  show  you  out,"  he  said  to  his  relatives  by  mar- 
riage quite  politely,  and  led  the  way  to  the  door,  where 
they  followed  with  a  strained  dignity,  feeling  a  little 
angry  that  he  behaved  so  politely. 

When  they  had  gone,  he  came  back  to  Emmie. 

"  Don't  let  it  worry  you,  darling,"  he  said,  putting  an 
arm  round  her.  "  They  are  number  one  size,  twenty-two 
carat  cats.  They  would  have  had  pyramids  erected  over 
them  in  Egypt.  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  damned !  .  .  .  They  take 
Huntley  and  Palmer's  works.  .  .  .  What  has  Aunt  Jane 
got  inside  her  ?  —  blood  or  vinegar  ?  .  .  .  Ye  Gods ! 
And  they'll  be  friends  .  .  .  and  only  do  this  from  a  sense 
of  duty —  Oh!  my  God!  Emmie,  that  lot  should  be 
packed  off  to  the  East  by  the  first  boat,  to  an  island  I 
know  where  the  natives  still  indulge  in  cannibalism  and 
don't  mind  a  little  waltz  with  a  victim  first.  .  .  .  Phew! 
Come  on,  we'll  go  to  Manchester  to  the  theatre  and  forget 
these  blessed  aunts  for  the  moment." 

Emmie  looked  up  at  him.  She  had  stopped  crying. 
She  felt  very  grateful  to  him  for  the  way  he  had  acted 
before  her  aunts  —  at  any  rate  they  saw  he  was  in  love 
with  her.  She  did  not  regret  what  had  happened  because 
Reginald  had  come  so  beautifully  to  her  side  and  behaved 
like  a  gentleman. 

Her  face  was  still  drawn,  but  she  put  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders  and  they  kissed. 


366  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Get  ready,"  he  said. 

"Shall  we?" 

"  Yes,  we'll  wash  out  the  taste  of  Aunts  Jane,  Maria, 
and  Sophia  at  the  Royal  or  the  Princess  —  let's  see  what's 
on.  .  .  .  The  Geisha's  a  capital  piece.  We  shall  forget 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  absolutely  watching  the  blessed 
Geisha.  So  quick,  Emmie,  darling  .  .  .  we'll  catch  the 
next  train.  We've  just  time." 

And  Emmie  said  to  herself  as  she  went  upstairs: 
"  They  can  say  what  they  like,  but  if  I  had  my  chance 
back  I'd  do  it  again ! " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

-  TAME  made  no  effort  to  carry  into  effect  this 
scheme  for  establishing  himself  in  business  as  an 
Importer  and  Exporter  from  and  to  the  East.  Neither 
did  Emmie  press  him.  She  was  so  happy  with  him  that 
she  would  not  disturb  the  joyful  current  of  their  lives. 
The  years  of  widowhood  had  given  her  a  renewed  zest 
in  married  life  and  she  flung  herself  into  the  duty  of  con- 
sidering her  man  with  a  fine  enthusiasm.  Reginald  had 
suggested  they  should  have  a  joint  private  banking  ac- 
count and  she  willingly  agreed.  Why  not?  Husband 
and  wife  surely  were  one. 

But  though  her  husband  followed  no  settled  occupation 
he  took  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  hatting.  He  went  over 
T.  Booke  and  Son's  frequently:  he  talked  to  Ernest  and 
also  Mr.  Booke  and  Emmie.  He  had  apparently  ideas 
on  business  that  were  large  and  sound,  having  imbibed 
them  from  his  association  with  the  big  firms  he  had  repre- 
sented in  the  East. 

"  Double,  treble,  quadruple  your  turn-over  and  that's 
when  you  begin  to  make  headway,"  he  would  say  to 
Ernest,  who  used  to  shake  his  head  a  good  deal  and  fancy 
that  if  only  Mr.  Tame  knew  a  bit  more  about  hatting  he'd 
talk  a  little  less  about  it.  All  very  well  saying  double, 
treble,  quadruple  your  turnover  —  you  had  to  do  it. 

Mr.  Booke's  views  seemed  to  be  almost  a  replica  of 
Ernest's  but  they  were  sparingly  expressed.  The  Bookes 
were  cautious  if  shrewd,  and  old  Timothy  in  listening  to 
Reginald  (whom  he  did  not  dislike  —  to  put  it  imposi- 
tively)  would  wonder  occasionally  if  the  ideas  were  those 

367 


368  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

of  a  brilliant  business  man  or  of  a  dreamer.  Yet  he  could 
not  find  flaws  in  the  arguments :  he  merely  raised  difficul- 
ties and  generally  ended  by  shrugging  his  shoulders  and 
declaring  that,  after  all,  the  works  were  no  longer  his. 

The  fact  that  Reginald  talked  over  these  business  ideas 
with  "  Grandpa "  pleased  Emmie,  especially  when  she 
learned  that  Grandpa  could  find  little  to  say  against  them. 
She  was  glad  because  it  put  Reginald,  her  husband,  in  a 
favourable  light.  Grandpa  would  see  she  had  not  mar- 
ried a  fool  but  a  smart  business  man  as  well  as  a  gentle- 
man. Even  when  Reginald  talked  to  Ernest  about  busi- 
ness Emmie  was  pleased :  it  all  seemed  to  reflect  well  on 
her.  She  could  say  (imaginatively),  "  Isn't  my  husband 
clever  as  well  as  a  gentleman?  Are  you  surprised  I  mar- 
ried him  ?  I've  got  something  about  me  to  attract  a  man 
like  that,  haven't  I  ?  He  could  have  married  any  time  if 
he'd  wanted  and  he  asked  me  " —  and  that,  of  course, 
heightened  her  love  for  Reginald. 

Emmie,  Reginald  and  Ernest  were  in  the  dining-room 
discussing  business.  Reginald  had  firmly  persuaded  him- 
self and  Emmie  that  what  they  ought  to  pursue  was  a 
forward  policy. 

"  No  trade  can  stand  still,"  he  said,  "  and  it  isn't  that 
they  can't  make  hats  in  Ganton." 

Ernest  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"  Beat  anybody,"  he  said. 

"  Exactly.  One  can  see  that  from  the  returns.  Do  we 
do  any  shipping  business?  " 

Ernest  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  much.  We  get  an  order  now  and  again  for 
Canada  or  Brazil,  but  not  much :  our's  is  a  home  trade." 

"  Any  reason  why  we  shouldn't  do  both  ?  " 

"  We've  never  bothered  much  with  shippers.  We  take 
their  orders  of  course,  but  we  don't  run  after  them." 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  369 

"Why  not?" 

Ernest  looked  a  bit  piqued. 

"  I'm  not  fault  finding  —  don't  think  that,"  said  Regi- 
nald. "  I  expect  T.  Booke  &  Son  never  did  run  after 
shipping  orders." 

"  No." 

"  But  so  far  as  I  can  see  there  is  no  reason,  is  there, 
why  they  shouldn't?  " 

Ernest  paused. 

"  It's  a  different  line." 

"Does  that  matter?" 

"  The  lines  that  we  go  on  pay  fairly  well." 

"  Yes.  But  what  is  there  against  our  forging  ahead  ? 
Why  shouldn't  we  try  and  double  our  output  ?  " 

"  No  reason  at  all." 

"  But  we  don't  do  it.  Mr.  Booke  never  did  it  and  the 
system,  which  pays  fairly  well,  let  us  admit  that,  still  goes 
on.  Now  I  don't  believe  in  standing  still.  I  have  been 
connected  with  firms  that  sent  men  all  round  the  world  — 
that's  the  way  to  do  business.  That  shows  imagination 
and  enterprise  —  and  it  pays.  Of  course  there  is  no  rea- 
son why  we  shouldn't  try  and  get  all  the  trade  we  can  at 
home :  the  home  market  is  a  good  one  —  the  best  from 
many  points  of  view  —  but  you  have  to  compete  with 
every  hat  manufacturer  in  Canton  and  in  the  country  for 
that,  whereas  you  only  compete  with  a  few  firms  when  you 
go  so  far  afield.  Most  businesses,  between  you  and  me, 
Ernest,  are  run  in  this  country  on  the  theory  that  foreign 
trade  is  risky  and  troublesome  and  not  to  be  bothered  with 
unless  you  are  absolutely  forced  to  do  it.  And  then  some 
of  them  do  it  as  if  they  conferred  a  favour  on  the  poor 
foreigner  by  dealing  with  him.  I've  seen  it.  .  Well 
known  English  firms  will  deal  with  big  Chinese  Importers 
on  the  Take-it-as-I-send-it-or-do-without-it  system; 


370  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

whereas  the  German  says,  What  do  you  want?  Packed 
in  small  boxes?  Certainly.  Another  label?  Certainly. 
Made  a  bit  longer?  Certainly.  Anything  we  can  do  to 
oblige  —  certainly.  The  Englishman  says :  What !  dif- 
ferent length,  different  weight,  different  label!  —  oh!  be 
damned  to  you  and  your  orders !  " 

Emmie  and  Ernest  laughed. 

"  I've  heard  these  Germans  are  very  pushing,"  said 
Ernest,  "  but  they're  no  good  at  hatting." 

(This  conversation  took  place,  of  course,  long  before 
the  war.) 

"  No." 

"  If  it  weren't  for  their  big  tariff  there'd  scarcely  be  a 
German  made  hat  in  Germany." 

"  So  I  understand.  But,"  continued  Reginald,  "  we 
can  do  with  copying  a  few  of  their  ways.  Success  in  busi- 
ness comes  to  those  who  see  far  and  wide,  don't  stick  in  a 
rut  and  work  hard.  Just  listen.  I  suppose  we  can  turn 
out  about  roughly  say  —  five  hundred  to  seven  hundred 
dozen  a  week :  that's  our  capacity.  But  it  doesn't  matter : 
I'll  imagine  we  can  do  a  thousand  dozen  a  week.  Then 
suppose  we  turned  out  two  thousand  dozen  —  would  our 
working  expenses  be  twice  as  much?  Not  at  all.  That 
second  thousand  dozen  might  not  cost  more  than  thirty  or, 
if  you  like,  fifty  per  cent.,  of  what  the  first  thousand  cost. 
But  since  we  only  make  one  thousand  and  not  two  we 
have  to  regulate  our  prices  accordingly.  Now  let's  see : 
suppose  we  make  one  thousand  dozen  hats  and  decide  to 
charge  thirty-six  shillings  a  dozen,  what  could  we  charge 
if  we  made  two  thousand  dozen?  We'll  suppose  the 
second  thousand  cost  fifty  per  cent,  of  what  the  first  thou- 
sand cost,  which  is  eighteen  shillings  a  dozen  or  an  average 
of  twenty-seven  shillings!  I  don't  say  the  figures  are 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  371 

right  actually  —  they  are  probably  not  —  but  they  point 
to  a  fact  that  if  you  can  increase  your  output  you  can  de- 
crease your  charges  without  decreasing  your  profit.  In 
fact  you  can  undersell  the  man  who  only  turns  out  his  five 
hundred  or  thousand  dozen,  and  you  can  actually  get  a 
bigger  profit  on  each  dozen  you  sell,  too ! " 

He  paused. 

"  You  understand,  Emmie?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Emmie,  who  had  put  down  her 
work-basket  now,  for  Reginald  talked  so  easily  and 
clearly  she  grasped  his  point  easily  and  was  deeply  inter- 
ested. 

"You  follow,  Ernest?" 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  the  point  to  aim  at,"  continued  Reginald ;  "  of 
course,  if  you  make  rotten  stuff  it  doesn't  matter  if  you 
make  five  hundred  or  five  thousand  dozen  you  won't  sell 
them.  But  we  can  make  hats.  T.  Booke  &  Son  is  an 
established  business  and  has  proved  its  capacity  to  make 
hats,  and  you,  Ernest,  can  see  that  that  goes  on,  can't 
you?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Ernest,  pleased  at  the  recognition  of 
his  ability. 

"  So  that  if  we  increased  our  output,  we  could  keep 
up  the  quality  of  our  goods,  which  is  of  a  recognized 
saleable  standard,  and  lower  the  price  ?  " 

«  Y— yes." 

"  If  we  lowered  our  prices  we  should  expect  to  get  more 
orders?" 

"  That's  it  —  Suppose  we  didn't?  " 

"  I  won't  suppose  anything  of  the  kind.  If  we  can  sell 
five  hundred  dozen  of  an  article  that  is  in  common  use  like 
a  hat  by  charging  thirty-six  shillings  a  dozen  we  shall  sell 


372  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

more  if  we  offer  the  same  hat  at  thirty  or  thirty-three 
shillings.  Particularly  if  we  go  into  any  and  every 
market  that  we  can  reach.  .  .  .  Eh  ?  " 

Ernest  was  silent:  he  was  not  to  be  hastened  into  en- 
thusiasm. 

(Emmie  looked  from  Reginald  to  Ernest  to  watch  the 
effects  of  her  husband's  argument,  which  really  astonished 
her.  She  thought :  "If  only  Aunt  Jane  and  Aunt  Maria 
could  hear  him  now.".  .  .  Also  she  was  assimilating  the 
whole  point  in  its  practical  side.) 

"  We  can  increase  our  output  at  present  by  something 
—  I  don't  know  what :  you  might  know,  Ernest  —  with- 
out incurring  much  expense.  For  instance,  those  boilers 
would  serve  for  the  making  of  fifteen  hundred  or  two 
thousand  dozen  just  as  easily  as  for  what  they  do  now. 
We  have  room  in  some  of  those  sheds  for  more  planks  — 
that's  rent  saved.  But  in  my  opinion  that's  tinkering. 
We  could  get  more  orders  by  going  to  new  markets  but 
then  we  only  offer  the  hats  we  make  now  at  our  present 
prices.  I  think  we  should  prepare  to  turn  out  fifteen  hun- 
dred dozen  a  week :  I'm  not  particular  about  the  precise 
number,  only  I  think  we  ought  to  double  our  present  ca- 
pacity. Then  we  have  a  splendid  article  to  offer  and  we 
ought  to  sell  it  without  any  trouble." 

Emmie  said:     "  What  do  you  think,  Ernest?" 

"  It  means  money." 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie.  "  How  w7ould  you  double  our 
present  capacity,  Reginald?" 

"  Build,  dear,  and  get  new  machinery." 

"  But  that  would  mean  spending  a  lot  of  money !  " 

"  It  would." 

"  And  where's  the  money  to  come  from?  " 

"  We  must  raise  it.  If  we  haven't  got  it  all  we  can 
surely  get  the  balance  by  mortgaging  the  works." 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  373 

"  Mortgage,"  said  Emmie,  to  whom  the  word  was 
something  of  ill  omen,  something  that  generally  turned 
out  a  sinister  and  horrible  thing  in  a  tale. 

"  Risky,"  said  Ernest,  shaking  his  head. 

"  It  was  risky  to  start  these  works  at  all,"  said  Reginald 
with  a  laugh.  "  Surely  it  isn't  more  risky  to  enlarge  when 
these  have  proved  a  success.  Have  we  got  less  pluck  than 
the  original  Mr.  Booke  ?  It's  the  firms  that  risk  on  sound 
business  lines  that  get  on  and  do  the  trade  that's  going. 
Stick-in-the-muds  have  no  chance.  Besides,  our  machin- 
ery is  out  of  date." 

Emmie  looked  at  Ernest  as  if  that  was  something  in- 
teresting to  him. 

Ernest  looked  uneasy.     Out  of  date  machinery.  .  .  . 

He  said :     "It's  doing  fairly  well  for  us." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  out  of  date.  Have  you  seen  the  new 
machine  for  weighing  fur  bodies  ?  " 

Emmie  looked  very  surprised.  How  did  Reginald 
know  all  about  this  ?  She  was  totally  ignorant  of  the  new 
machine  for  weighing  fur  bodies.  .  .  . 

Ernest  said  almost  sulkily :  "  I  saw  it  at  the  Exhibi- 
tion." 

"At  Manchester?"  asked  Emmie. 

"  Yes." 

"What  is  it?  "she  asked. 

"  Ernest  will  explain  it,"  said  Reginald.  "  He 
knows  the  details  of  those  things  much  better  than  I 
do." 

Ernest,  flattered  a  little,  was  pleasanter : 

"  Very  ingenious,"  he  said.  "  You  know  how  the  fur 
body  is  made  now.  The  fur's  blown  on  a  cone  and  taken 
off  when  the  man  think's  there's  enough  on.  But  with 
the  new  machinery  the  fur's  weighed  first." 

"  That  means,"  said  Reginald,  "  that  every  hat  is  the 


374  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

same  weight.  No  variation  you  see  —  sorry  I  interrupted 
you,  Ernest  —  go  on." 

"  Then  after  being  weighed  the  fur  is  carried  into  the 
box-like  arrangement  where  a  fan  underneath  draws  it  on 
to  a  cone,  that's  revolving  all  the  time  and  when  there  is 
enough  fur  on  a  bell  rings.  Out  goes  the  cone,  another 
lot  of  fur  comes  in.  ...  Oh !  very  ingenious.  American 
invention  I  believe.  Smart  chaps  these  Yankees." 

"  Yes,"  said  Reginald. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it,"  said  Emmie. 

"  We'll  have  one  fixed  up,"  said  Reginald,  "  and  see 
how  it  works." 

Is  he  the  master  already  ?  thought  Ernest. 

Emmie  had  a  similar  thought,  but  it  rounded  itself  with : 
He  can  do  what  he  likes  if  he  won't  ruin  me. 

"  You  can't  afford  to  neglect  inventions,"  said  Reginald. 
"  Every  firm  should  allow  so  much  every  year  for  the 
trial  of  new  dodges  and  machinery,  otherwise  somebody 
will  get  in  front  of  them.  We  all  allow  for  bad  debts, 
why  not  for  the  trying  of  things  that  might  turn  out 
profitable  ?  There's  another  thing,  Ernest,  have  you  ever 
gone  into  the  figures  of  the  foreign  trade  in  hats?" 

"  Well  .  .  .  not  particularly,"  said  Ernest.  "  Smith 
Sons  &  Kemp  do  a  lot  with  Canada  and  J.  K.  P.  &  Co. 
used  to  do  a  lot  with  Australia.  About  £6,000  a  year 
they  used  to  do,  but  the  tariff  knocked  them  down  to  £600 
—  that's  foreign  trade."  (Ernest  thought  he  had 
scored.) 

"  That's  all  business.  Every  big  firm  loses  a  good 
market  one  day  and  finds  another  the  next.  I  expect 
J.  K.  P.  &  Co.  didn't  go  under  because  they  lost  a  trade 
of  five  thousand  a  year  with  some  one." 

"  No.     They  say  they're  doing  very  well  with  Japan 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  37; 

Reginald  laughed.     So  did  Emmie. 

"  I'll  give  you  some  figures.  They  are  only  1894  re- 
turns but  they  will  serve."  He  took  out  a  piece  of  paper 
from  his  pocket  and  began  to  read : 

"  Sweden  &  Norway  4910  dozen    £10492 

—  that's  what  they  took  in  1894  from  this  country. 

"  Denmark    4142  dozen      £7,260 


Germany    23164 

Holland     11808 

Belgium     29798 

France    40175 

Roumania    3896 

Turkey     1699 

Egypt    1013 

United   States    8695 

Brazil     8945 

British  South  Africa    47295 

New  South  Wales    31816 

Canada    84506 


£31,228 
£24,693 
£47,962 
£59,609 
£2,701 

£3,184 
£2418 
£18,476 
6*1,245 
£64,385 
£34,598 
£99,896 


and  others.     A  bit  of  trade  there,  Ernest." 

"  Ay.  ...  I  didn't  think  it  was  so  big." 

"  How  did  you  find  all  that  out  ?  "  asked  Emmie,  glow- 
ing with  pride  in  her  brilliant  husband. 

"  Out  of  a  periodical  I  saw  lying  in  the  office." 

"Oh!  Urn  .  .  ."  said  Ernest.  "I  don't  often  read 
it."  He  referred  to  the  technical  paper. 

"  We  sent  out  of  this  country  apparently  in  1894,"  said 
Reginald,  "  something  like  £632,649  worth  of  hats.  Now 
I  suggest  that  with  enterprise  a  great  many  more  could 
have  been  exported :  but  in  any  case  there  is  room  for  T. 
Booke  &  Son  in  that  trade.  Also  we  don't  want  to  stop 
at  a  profit  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a  year:  we  ought  to 
make  three  thousand,  five  thousand  —  ten  thousand " 

"  Reginald !  "  said  Emmie,  looking  magnificently  aston- 
ished. 

Ernest  laughed. 


370  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  It's  easy  talking,"  he  said. 

"  You  think  it  over,"  said  Reginald.  "  The  sooner  we 
start  preparing  to  double  our  capacity,  having  also  an  eye 
on  a  second  doubling,  the  better.  Have  a  cigar,  Ernest?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  if  I  do,"  said  Ernest. 

"And  a  whiskey?" 

"  And  a  whiskey.  .  .  .  We've  got  something  to  think 
of,"  he  said  with  a  laugh  that  seemed  made  up  of  hope 
and  fear. 

"  Yes  —  a  glorious  business,"  said  Reginald. 

Unostentatiously,  without  any  fuss  and  with  a  graceful 
ease  Reginald  took  in  hand  the  management  of  T.  Booke 
&  Son.  Ernest  was  not  displaced  and  Reginald  never 
attempted  to  interfere  in  any  of  the  technical  processes  of 
hatting,  but  the  new  master  slipped  easily  into  position. 

Emmie  was  really  very  pleased.  What  could  be  better 
than  that  her  business  should  be  her  husband's?  If  she 
had  continued  making  hats  and  Reginald  had  thrown  his 
energies  in  some  other  direction  their  interests  to  some 
extent  would  have  been  divided.  Besides,  Reginald's  en- 
try into  the  firm  had  been  accomplished  not  only  tactfully 
and  without  ruffling  anybody's  sensibilities  (save  members 
of  the  Booke  family,  the  ladies  of  which  were  as  fretful 
as  porcupines,  and  Timothy,  as  suspicious  as  he  was 
anxious),  but  to  Emmie,  at  any  rate,  great  prosperity 
seemed  to  be  the  promise  of  it. 

The  fact  was,  Reginald  had  seen  business  carried  on  by 
firms  whose  enterprise  and  interest  circled  the  world. 
There  were  no  confines  to  their  markets,  and  he  knew  how 
such  businesses  were  organised.  Moreover,  he  was  clear 
and  had  such  a  pleasant  way  that  if  he  had  something 
sound  to  suggest  he  could  make  it  alluring.  He  was 
capable  of  seeing  a  question  from  most  of  its  essential 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  377 

sides  and  generally  looked  well  round  any  problem  he 
tackled.  The  consequence  was  Emmie  was  easily  led  by 
him  in  those  things  and  Ernest  followed  in  his  train,  while 
Mr.  Booke,  on  being  spoken  to  could  only  find  old  words 
of  caution  and  warning,  which  were  not  really  argument, 
but  rather  suggested  occasionally  the  belittling  by  a  man 
inclined  to  be  envious  of  another's  great  vision,  and  was 
also,  perhaps,  afraid  of  failure. 

Reginald  certainly  worked  out  his  scheme  with  thor- 
oughness and  enthusiasm.  He  kept  saying:  Hatting 
appears  to  have  got  in  a  rut:  we  will  lift  it  out.  Most 
hatters  are  content  to  make  as  much  as  their  fathers  did : 
they  are  all  capable,  for  in  no  country  in  the  world  can 
hats  be  made  to  equal  British  hats  at  the  same  price ;  but 
there  is  always  scope  for  those  who  will  go  over  the  hill. 

Ernest  was  set  to  work  out  estimates  and  plan  for  the 
greater  output.  He  had  to  say  how  many  more  carding 
machines,  felting  benches,  dye  kettles,  et  cetera,  if  any, 
would  be  wanted.  Also  Reginald  was  determined  to  in- 
stall the  latest  machinery  for  "  forming."  T.  Booke  & 
Son  could  make  saleable  hats:  they  would  make  hats  as 
good  as  they  had  ever  made,  if  not  better,  and  they  would 
sell  them  cheaper,  because  they  could  afford  to  do  so  by 
making  double  the  quantity.  He  hammered  these  ideas 
home  —  hammered  is,  perhaps,  a  strong  word,  but  by 
enthusiasm  and  repetitions  in  his  speech  he  got  Ernest  and 
Emmie  at  least  to  see  with  him  and  believe  in  him. 

He  also  enquired  into  extra  home  and  foreign  markets. 
He  learned  that  A.  B.  &  Co.  did  a  big  trade  with  Belgium  : 
C.  D.  &  Son  did  well  with  Canada,  another  firm  sent  thou- 
sands of  dozen  in  the  course  of  the  year  to  South  Amer- 
ica, others  did  most  of  their  foreign  trade  with  the  United 
States. 

Reginald  surprised  Emmie  by  his  thoroughness.     He 


378  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

enquired  into  the  Japanese  market  (amongst  others)  till 
he  learnt  the  styles  and  prices  most  popular  there,  how  the 
goods  were  packed  and  sent  and  what  the  financial  ar- 
rangements were.  He  seemed  to  neglect  nothing. 

Money  had  to  be  found  for  the  new  buildings  and  new 
machinery  and  Emmie,  in  looking  into  her  capital  ac- 
count, discovered  she  had  saved  nearly  a  thousand  pounds 
a  year  since  Tim's  death.  She  sold  what  stocks  she  had 
and  realised  in  round  figures  about  £3,000.  As  the  con- 
templated improvements  and  additions  were  estimated  at 
£5,000,  a  loan  of  £2,000  was  secured  on  the  security  of 
the  works. 

Reginald,  when  the  new  buildings  were  almost  ready 
for  use,  went  to  Paris,  where  he  appointed  an  agent  for 
Holland,  Belgium  and  France,  and  to  Copenhagen  where 
he  found  another  to  act  as  the  firm's  representative  in  the 
three  Scandinavian  countries. 

Emmie  missed  him  when  he  went  away  and  was  always 
glad  to  see  him  return.  He  never  failed  to  bring  presents 
for  her  and  the  children.  She  went  with  him  on  a  subse- 
quent visit  to  Paris,  where  they  put  up  at  once  of  the  best 
hotels,  and  Reginald  spent  money  lavishly.  Emmie  sug- 
gested mildly  that  they  seemed  to  be  living  rather  well, 
but  Reginald  explained  that  you  had  to  impress  people  in 
business :  you  had  to  cut  a  dash  and  show  that  you  could 
spend.  It  was  worse  than  useless  to  try  and  be  economi- 
cal on  occasions  of  this  sort. 

Emmie  was  soothed  and  silenced  but  not  convinced  or 
satisfied,  for  some  sort  of  habit  was  restive,  though  she 
kept  further  protestations  to  herself. 

But  the  prosperity  of  T.  Booke  &  Son  was  undoubted. 
Ernest  was  a  thoroughly  capable  manager  and  had  a  good 
business  sense.  Reginald's  predictions  had  been  verified. 
The  firm  made  a  better  hat  than  before,  for  the  money. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  379 

And  the  additional  push  in  the  sales,  due  to  extra  agents 
and  travellers,  had  its  results. 

People  in  Canton  began  to  talk  of  T.  Booke  &  Son. 
"  They  were  going  ahead  —  doing  well  —  Due  to  that 
chap  Emmie  Booke  married ;  or  was  it  Ernest  Mullins  as 
did  it?"  Opinion  generally  leaned  to  Reginald  as  the 
cause  of  T.  Booke  &  Son's  progress  and  he  was  regarded 
with  respectful  eyes,  because  in  the  business-world  success 
is  the  criterion  of  respect,  and  almost  its  only  one. 

There  were,  of  course,  others  who  shrugged  shoulders 
and  shook  heads,  but  the  shoulders  and  heads  were  gen- 
erally those  of  men  who  had  not  dared  to  adventure,  who 
stuck  manfully  and  stubbornly  in  ruts  and  they  said, 
"  Wait  a  bit.  .  .  .  Wait  till  there's  slack  times.  .  .  . 
Wait  a  bit."  The  suggestions  were  supposed  to  be  the 
outpourings  of  wise  men  and  prophetic  of  doom. 

But  Emmie  rejoiced.  She  saw  the  firm  going  ahead. 
At  present  they  were  not  handling  more  money  than  be- 
fore because  the  expenses  of  organising  this  new  cam- 
paign as  it  were,  had  been  heavy:  but  the  profits  were 
growing.  The  fifteen  hundred  a  year  that  had  been  the 
normal  figure  of  the  firm  were  now  promising  to  be  three 
thousand.  Three  thousand  a  year  .  .  .  sixty  pounds  a 
week.  .  .  .  Emmie  was  thrilled  at  the  contemplation  of 
this  and  wanted  to  go  to  all  the  members  of  her  own  and 
those  of  the  Booke  family  and  ask  them  if  she  had  not 
done  exceedingly  well  in  marrying  a  man  who  was  not 
only  a  gentleman  with  whom  she  was  really  in  love,  but 
was  also  a  business  man  in  a  thousand  — "  well,  as  smart 
as  anybody  in  Canton,  at  any  rate.".  .  . 

To  her  own  family  she  would  have  added:  haven't  I 
done  well  in  my  marriages  ? 

But  all  the  time  she  worked  with  no  distaste  at  cooking 


380  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

and  housework.  In  fact  it  was  Reginald  who  said  they 
ought  to  have  a  cook  in  the  house  as  well  as  Ada. 

Emmie  looked  up  at  the  suggestion. 

"  No,  Reginald,"  she  said  in  rather  a  curious  tone. 

"  Yes,  Emmie,"  he  said.  "  It's  absurd  you  doing  all 
this  work.  You'll  be  going  out  washing,  next." 

She  laughed. 

"  I'm  strong  enough :  I  don't  mind.  I  don't  like  doing 
certain  things  —  well,  Ada  does  them  and  Mrs.  Wright  — 
but  for  the  rest.  .  .  ."  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  For  the  rest  —  nonsense.  You  don't  want  to  be  do- 
ing all  that  housework  now.  Take  it  easy.  Besides,  it 
doesn't  look  well  for  a  lady  in  your  position  to  be  going 
about  with  a  duster  over  her  head  and  a  big  apron  on." 

"  That's  London,  that  is,  or  Paris.  It  doesn't  look  well 
when  a  woman  objects  to  doing  a  bit  of  sweeping  and 
dusting." 

He  laughed  this  time. 

"  That's  Canton,"  he  said. 

"  I  should  be  ashamed  to  do  nothing  —  properly 
ashamed.  What  would  people  say?  " 

"  Emmie,  let  'em  say  what  they  like." 

He  won.  Ada  was  assisted  into  another  place  and  a 
capable  general  who  could  do  plain  cooking  was  engaged. 
Emmie  insisted  on  doing  most  of  the  cooking  and  helped 
with  bed-making  and  dusting.  Reginald  told  her  they 
must  have  a  maid  soon  to  wait  at  table  and  Emmie  felt 
that  what  he  said  would  come  to  pass. 

The  Bookes  were  very  friendly  now  that  they  saw  the 
works  prospering.  They  talked  in  corners  occasionally 
and  felt  a  little  uncomfortable  as  the  tale  of  the  firm's 
progress  reached  them.  They  could  never  forget  they 
were  T.  Booke  &  Son,  but  they  all  seemed  to  feel  they  had 
to  bear  a  reproach  because  this  great  leap  forward  had 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  381 

not  been  made  while  the  firm  was  under  the  personal 
supervision  of  a  Booke.  Timothy  had  been  content  to  go 
steadily  on ;  Tim  had  also  kept  the  firm  to  its  old  and  suc- 
cessful lines  and  now  came  this  man  Emmie  had  picked  up 
in  a  boarding-house  in  Blackpool  and  did  things  unthought 
of.  It  was  galling  even  if  it  was  eminently  satisfactory. 
The  Bookes  had  a  fly  in  their  ointment. 

As  the  months  passed  intercourse  with  the  family  had 
resumed  almost  old  habits.  The  Sunday  evening  visits 
were  part  and  lot  of  the  family  custom  and  Emmie  and 
Reginald  were  roped  in. 

Reginald  was  liked.  The  ladies  were  impressed  by  his 
politeness,  which  had  a  polish  and  suavity  they  found 
wanting  as  a  Canton  custom,  and  the  men  liked  his  talk 
which  was  varied  and  interesting  in  substance  and  gen- 
erally racy  in  utterance.  Besides,  one  could  not  deny  he 
made  T.  Booke  &  Son  a  name  to  impress. 

Emmie  naturally  lived  with  content.  She  made  allow- 
ances to  her  sister  and  her  parents  and  her  father  was 
made  at  Reginald's  insistance  a  kind  of  foreman  or  odd 
superviser  at  a  salary  of  four  pounds  a  week.  He  thought 
he  was  worth  every  penny  of  it  and  his  wife  did  not  think 
it  worth  while  undeceiving  him.  She  had  gifts  he  knew 
nothing  of  which  she  quietly  put  in  the  Post  Office  Sav- 
ings Bank. 

Reginald's  father  and  mother  and  sister  visited  them 
and  Emmie  was  exceedingly  busy,  seeing  there  was  not  a 
corner  of  any  room  that  was  not  scrupulously  clean.  She 
baked  cakes  and  tarts  and  the  cellar  where  she  stored  her 
comestibles  made  one  realise  what  a  land  flowing  with 
milk  and  honey  would  be  like. 

The  Bookes  met  the  Tames  and  were  on  their  very  best 
behaviour.  Mrs.  Holten,  Mrs.  Grass  and  Miss  Booke 
were  not  to  be  patronised  by  anybody.  They  knew  their 


382  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

worth  —  at  least  they  knew  the  value  they  set  on  them- 
selves. They  did  not  boast  the  lineage  of  dukes  nor  the 
manners  of  courtiers,  but  they  were  sturdy,  honest,  able, 
independent  people  —  particularly  independent.  If  you 
boasted  —  they  could.  And  they  would  let  nobody  ride 
the  high  horse  over  them :  but  they  could  feel  flattered  by 
acquaintanceship.  If  Mr.  Tame's  father  had  been  a  body 
maker  or  a  finisher  (like  Samuel  Bollins  for  instance) 
they  could  assume  airs  of  superiority :  as  Mr.  Tame  was  a 
clergyman  who  had  been  to  Oxford  they  were  really  quite 
pleased  to  be  friends.  They  would  let  the  Rev.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tame  and  Miss  Tame  see  what  Canton  hatters  were. 
And  they  did.  They  all  seemed  to  have  been  baking  and 
cooking  for  weeks  and  their  houses  were  spotless.  Not  a 
thing  seemed  to  be  out  of  its  place  and  Mrs.  Tame  re- 
marked to  her  daughter :  "  Really  you  could  eat  off  the 
floors  of  these  people's  houses,  and  what  excellent  food  it 
is!"  The  food  was  not  Savoy-Hotellish :  the  entrees 
were  non-existent,  fancy  dishes  played  no  part  in  the 
meals ;  but  everything  was  of  the  best  quality,  cooked  to  a 
point  and  there  was  no  stint.  Miss  Booke  made  the 
confession  that  freed  her  soul,  "  Well,  they  may  have 
had  different  food,  Jane,  but  they've  never  had  bet- 
ter." 

Both  families  seemed  satisfied. 

All  the  Tames  had  been  most  kind  in  manner  to  Emmie. 
They  seemed  to  have  realised  that  their  son  had  been 
exceedingly  lucky  to  marry  a  wife  so  well-endowed  physi- 
cally, mentally  and  financially  as  Emmie.  Their  attitudes 
expressed  thankfulness  and  gratitude. 

Mrs.  Tame  said,  "  You  are  happy,  Emmie  ?  " 

"Oh!     Yes." 

"  I  am  so  glad." 

Mrs.  Tame  nodded,  drew  Emmie  to  her  and  kissed  her. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  383 

She  was  a  tender  woman,  tender  in  gesture,  in  manner,  in 
body  and  heart. 

"  Reginald  is  full  of  enthusiasms,"  she  said. 

"  He's  splendid,"  said  Emmie. 

After  a  pause  Mrs.  Tame  said,  "  If  he  will  only  stick. 
.  .  .  He  has  great  ability  —  great  ability.  .  .  ." 

"  He'll  stick  right  enough,"  said  Emmie. 

"  I  hope  so."     Mrs.  Tame  spoke  with  feeling. 

"  I'll  see  to  that,"  said  Emmie  confidently. 

"  I  trust  you  will  .  .  .  and  —  er,  I  hope  you  will  save 
—  your  money  I  mean." 

"  Reginald  says  we  shall  soon  be  rich  beyond  the  dreams 
of  avarice  —  that's  his  way  of  putting  it.  Oh !  we  shall 
save  right  enough." 

"  Do.     Reginald  has  great  dreams." 

"  He's  got  a  great  business,  too,  now." 

"  Yes  —  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Tame.  "  That  is  a  very  good 
thing." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  builders  were  not  able  to  leave  T.  Booke  &  Sons. 
No  sooner  had  they  finished  one  job  than  another 
was  ready.  Reginald's  imagination  and  his  keen  business 
grip  kept  up  progress  and  saw  it  was  allied  to  what  was 
sound.  The  management  of  the  firm's  finances  were  al- 
most wholly  in  his  hands  and  he  agreed  to  pay  for  this  out 
of  income,  raise  something  on  mortgage  and  spend  a  cer- 
tain amount  in  opening  up  a  market  elsewhere.  .  .  . 

Nobody  was  short  of  money.  Emmie  always  found  a 
good  balance  at  the  bank  and  Reginald  explained  they 
must  dig  and  plant  before  they  could  enjoy  the  fruit.  In 
one  sense  Emmie  did  enjoy  the  fruit :  she  was  exceedingly 
happy.  She  was  very  proud  when  she  walked  out  with 
her  good-looking  gentlemanly  husband.  She  was  proud, 
too,  as  she  surveyed  "  T.  Booke  &  Son  "  and  realised  that 
it  was  hers  and  was  growing  into  one  of  the  biggest  hat 
factories  in  England.  In  the  trade  people  talked  and  she 
knew  she  was  talked  of.  ...  "  Emmie  Bollins  "  some  of 
them  said,  referring  to  her;  others  said,  "Mrs.  Booke," 
and  others,  "  Mrs.  Tame," —  It  didn't  matter  what  they 
called  her  —  she  was  she.  They  meant  her.  As  she 
walked  down  the  road  she  could  feel  the  remarks  for  she 
saw  the  nods  and  looks.  ..."  That's  Mrs.  Tame  —  her 
as  owns  T.  Booke  &  Son.  .  .  ." 

And  in  the  shops  she  was  fussed  when  she  went  in.  ... 
"  Mrs.  Tame.  .  .  .  Yes,  m'm  .  .  .  send  it  at  once.  .  .  ." 
Her  marriage  seemed  to  have  freshened  things  for  her. 
She  was  more  noticed  than  she  had  been  even  in  Tim's 
time.  After  all,  T.  Booke  &  Son's  progress  accounted  for 

384 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  385 

a  deal  for  this  big  building  was  something  they  could  all 
understand  in  Canton  and  discuss  in  public-house  just  as 
well  as  in  Club. 

Tim  was  sent  to  Uppingham.  Reginald  had  been  there 
and  Emmie  was  glad  to  see  her  husband  keen  to  send  the 
boy  to  "  his  "  school.  Emmie  was  inclined  to  boast  about 
Uppingham.  She  quickly  got  abreast  of  the  educational 
levels  that  had  been  reached  by  Gantonians  and  discovered 
that  few  hatters'  sons  had  managed  to  do  better  than  the 
Manchester  Grammar  School  —  or  some  boarding  school 
that  did  not  carry  very  great  weight.  Uppingham  was  a 
public  school  —  Reginald  put  that  idea  into  her  and 
Emmie  could  not  refrain  from  telling  a  few  Uppingham 
stories  to  Mrs.  Holten  whose  son  was  at  a  private  board- 
ing school  in  Cheshire. 

"  One  of  the  public  schools,"  said  Emmie. 

"  There's  any  number  of  them,"  retorted  Mrs.  Holten 
sharply,  "  and  I  don't  think  much  of  some  of  them  either," 
and  she  nodded  her  head,  as  she  added  to  herself  for  her 
own  comfort,  "  You  don't  suppose  I'm  going  to  let  you 
crow  over  me,  do  you,  you  little  trimmer !  "  Outwardly, 
Mrs.  Holten  was  simply  defensive. 

"  As  Reginald  says :  It's  a  fine  thing  for  a  boy  to  go 
to  a  good  school,  and  Uppingham,"  Emmie  shook  her 
head,  "  there  have  been  bishops  and  titled  people  and  I 
don't  know  what  there." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Holten.  "  I  don't  know  what 
either,  and  as  Tom  says :  It's  a  fine  thing  for  a  boy  to 
get  a  good  education  and  never  mind  his  mixing  with 
bishops  and  titled  people  who  won't  look  at  him  when  he's 
got  his  apron  on  or  in  a  hat  shop.  You've  done  well 
enough,  Emmie,  without  much  education." 

Emmie  nodded.     She  turned  the  barb  — 

"  It  isn't  the  same  with  girls,"  she  said.     "  Some  girls 


386  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

with  a  fine  schooling  do  nothing  and  others  —  well,  I  can 
hold  my  own,  at  any  rate." 

It  was  in  1900  that  T.  Booke  &  Son  received  the  blow. 
There  was  no  denying  the  progress  of  the  firm:  they  had 
gone  on  from  enlargement  to  enlargement ;  there  had  been 
all  kinds  of  alterations  and  everything  that  contrivance 
and  ingenuity  could  suggest  had  been  introduced  into  the 
works  almost  regardless  of  expense.  There  had  been  one 
or  two  trying  times  for  T.  Booke  &  Son  with  all  that 
machinery  needed  a  lot  of  orders  to  keep  them  going  and 
if  they  did  not  make  their  full  complement  they  were  al- 
most worse  off  than  others  for  they  had  so  much  plant  to 
lie  idle.  Trade  in  general  went  up.  1896  had  been  a 
record  year;  1897  beat  it,  1898  was  better,  1899  was  better 
still.  And  yet  hatting  was  not  so  flourishing  as  the  gen- 
eral figures  suggested,  for  there  were  more  hats,  reckoned 
in  value,  exported  in  1896  than  in  any  of  the  following 
years  mentioned  above.  Yet,  of  course,  one  house  might 
do  well  and  another  ill :  on  the  whole  "  T.  Booke  &  Son  " 
had  done  well  and  justified  Reginald's  enterprise.  They 
were  now  at  the  stage  when  they  could  afford  to  refrain 
from  building  and  buying  new  machinery  for  a  time  and 
take  the  profits,  which  were  in  1899  over  four  thousand 
pounds. 

Emmie  now  sported  costly  furs  and  jewels,  and  there 
was  a  fine  horse  and  gig  for  Reginald  to  drive  her  about 
in  a  victoria  to  take  her  to  town  whenever  she  wished. 
He  talked  now  of  buying  a  motor-car.  .  .  . 

But  suddenly  he  said  one  night,  "  Emmie,  I  must  go  to 
London." 

Emmie  found  a  little  more  time  for  reading  now  that 
the  children  were  older  and  she  did  less  housework  and 
she  had  a  novel  by  Henry  Seton  Merriman  in  her  hand. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  387 

They  were  both  sitting  in  the  dining-room;  the  ma- 
hogany chairs  had  been  reseated ;  the  Persian  carpet  was 
still  wearing  well ;  the  mahogany  sideboard  still  carried  its 
load  of  silver  —  greater  now  than  ever.  There  were  pic- 
tures on  the  walls  which  Reginald  had  bought  in  Paris  and 
London  from  students  he  had  seen  copying  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg, the  Louvre  and  the  National  Gallery.  In  a  corner 
by  the  fireplace  was  a  handsome  mahogany  roll-top  desk 
which  contained  Reginald's  papers  and  was  used  only  by 
him.  He  was  sitting  at  it  now,  running  through  papers, 
tearing  up  a  great  many  and  making  calculations.  Emmie 
was  wearing  a  dark  blue  flowered  gown  with  a  red  belt. 
She  still  kept  an  admirable  figure  and  looked  in  splendid 
health. 

"  London,"  she  said,  putting  "  In  Kedar's  Tents  "  in 
her  lap. 

He  nodded. 

"  Must.  ...  I  want  to  see  Wyatt,  and  there  are  some 
things  I'm  enquiring  into." 

"  When  do  you  think  of  going?  " 

"  To-morrow." 

"Soon,  isn't  it?" 

"  Soonest  over,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  Going  to  take  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  this  time,  Emmie." 

She  pulled  a  face. 

"  What's  the  good  of  whirling  you  about?"  He  got 
up  and  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  and  she  was  glad  to 
hold  his  gaze. 

"  A  lot  of  good,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  mind  being 
whirled  to  a  dinner  somewhere  and  to  a  theatre." 

"  We'll  put  it  off  a  bit.  I  want  to  do  a  pile  of  busi- 
ness." 

"What  sort?    Who  with?" 


388  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

Emmie  had  taken  much  less  intimate  interest  in  the 
works  since  Reginald  had  managed  them.  Ernest  did  not 
come  in  now  except  as  he  was  asked  —  there  was  Reginald 
to  refer  to  —  so  Emmie  felt  there  was  always  a  deal  going 
on  she  could  not  hope  to  grasp. 

"  With  Wyatt  and  Stock  &  Co.,  and  I  think  I  might  get 
a  Government  contract." 

"Oh!  ...  Shall  you  be  long?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  There's  that  mortgage,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  that,"  he  said.  "  I'll  manage  it 
all  right." 

"How?" 

"  Either  get  them  to  take  it  a  day  earlier  or  wait  till  I 
come  back." 

Emmie  was  satisfied. 

"  See,  darling?  "  he  said  gaily. 

"  Yes."  She  smiled,  feeling  happy.  It  was  nice  to  be 
called  darling  by  him.  She  looked  at  him  as  he  resumed 
his  work  at  the  desk.  What  a  finely  shaped  head  he  had ! 
How  straight  a  nose !  Nice  ruddy  complexion,  too,  for  a 
man  .  .  .  and  she  liked  a  moustache.  Some  didn't:  but 
she  did.  .  .  . 

She  picked  up  "  In  Kedar's  Tents  "  again  and  came 
under  Merriman's  fascination. 

Reginald  went  on  with  his  tearing  and  arranging  and 
rearranging. 

He  was  up  early  the  next  morning  and  after  having  had 
his  bath  he  got  out  his  portmanteau. 

Emmie,  not  quite  dressed,  said,  "  Going  to  pack  "  in  a 
surprised  tone. 

"  Yes." 

"  Are  you  off  so  soon  ?  " 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  389 

"  I  want  to  go  to  the  bank  and  arrange  things  and  I 
don't  want  to  have  to  do  the  packing  when  I  come  back." 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  Emmie.  "  What  do  you  want  going 
in  ?  You  won't  be  away  long  —  two  or  three  days  ?  " 

"  H'm  —  pack  for  three  days,  that  will  do." 

Emmie,  in  a  dark  striped  petticoat  and  a  white 
chemise,  showing  her  arms  bare  almost  to  the  shoulders, 
at  once  went  to  his  drawers  and  got  out  collars  and  ties 
and  pajamas. 

"  Going  to  take  your  evening  dress,  Reginald  ?  " 

"  Think  so.     It  might  be  useful  —  Yes,  put  it  in,  dear." 

She  continued  the  packing  and  he  his  dressing. 

He  usually  looked  at  the  Guardian  at  breakfast,  but 
this  morning  he  could  not  read,  somehow. 

"  You're  excited,  Reginald,  what  is  it?  "  said  Emmie, 
who  saw  he  was  playing  with  his  food. 

"  Excited,  nonsense."  He  rustled  the  paper  as  if  he 
would  find  something  he  wished  to  read.  "  I've  such  a  lot 
to  do  before  I  go  and  I  want  to  get  to  town  by  half  past 
two  if  possible  —  I  can  catch  Wyatt  and  save  a  day  if  I 
do."  He  looked  at  the  paper  intently. 

After  breakfast  he  went  into  the  works  and  Emmie  saw 
that  his  bag  was  labelled  and  his  umbrella  ready. 

He  came  back  in  a  few  minutes. 

"  I'll  drive,"  he  said.  "  It  will  be  safest.  I  can  call  at 
the  bank  and  then  go  on  to  Stockport  or  get  to  Canton 
Station  to  catch  that  train  that  meets  the  Euston  train 
coming  from  London  Road.  Is  my  bag  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  all  ready.     Have  you  all  you  want  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  thanks." 

He  looked  into  his  roll-top  desk  again,  then  went  up- 
stairs and  came  down  and  picked  up  his  umbrella  and  silk 
hat  off  the  stand.  He  was  wearing  a  black  morning  coat 
and  striped  trousers. 


390  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Emmie  pulled  a  face. 

"  Going  to  leave  me  ?  "  she  said  a  little  pettedly,  for 
she  always  enjoyed  her  excursions  with  him  to  London  or 
Paris. 

He  took  her  face  in  his  hands  and  looked  at  her  almost 
seriously. 

"  I  wish  I  could  take  you,  Emmie,  dear,"  he  said  quietly, 
but  with  feeling. 

She  was  stirred  at  once. 

"  Take  me,  then." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Haven't  time.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  you'll  soon  be  home,"  she  said  as  she  kissed  him. 

He  held  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  more  than  once. 

Emmie  wondered  a  little:  he  was  more  serious,  more 
moved  than  usual  at  a  casual  parting.  He  saw  she  was 
curious. 

"  It's  absurd  kissing  you  like  this  after  all  the  time 
we've  been  married,  isn't  it?  "  he  said. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  ever  be  absurd,"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her  suddenly,  almost  fiercely. 

"  Good-bye,  dear." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  almost  thrilled.  Did  he  love  her 
so  much?  .  .  .  She  stood  at  the  window  and  watched 
him  get  into  the  dog-cart.  Cross  had  put  his  bag  in.  ... 
They  could  just  see  each  other's  faces.  He  raised  his 
hat :  she  threw  him  a  kiss  and  he  went  away. 

Emmie  received  a  letter  next  morning. 

MY  DEAR  EMMIE: 

Have  arrived  safely.  Will  write  soon  at  length.  All 
my  love,  and  a  kiss  for  Alice. 

Yours,         ,-, 

REGINALD. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  391 

No  letter  arrived  the  following  day.  But  Ernest  came 
to  see  Emmie  in  the  course  of  the  morning. 

"  There's  Mr.  Bowfield  here,"  he  said. 

"  Mr.  Bowfield.  ...  Oh !  It  will  be  about  that  mort- 
gage." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ernest,  looking  very  serious. 

"  Well,  hasn't  Mr.  Tame  written  him  or  seen  about 
it?" 

Ernest  paused.     "  N — No." 

"  He  was  going  to  —  where  is  Mr.  Bowfield  ?  " 

"  In  the  office." 

"  I'll  go  and  see  him  —  or  you  can  tell  him  Ernest. 
Tell  him  that  Mr.  Tame  will  be  back  in  a  day  or  two  if 
it's  been  overlooked." 

But  Ernest  was  shaking  his  head. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  Emmie  asked. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Ernest,  speaking  deliberately, 
"  there's  something  wrong." 

Emmie  saw  vaguely  many  ominous  things. 

"  Something  wrong,"  she  repeated,  going  a  little  paler, 
for  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "  Has  it  anything  to  do  with 
Reginald?  and  a  mortgage.  .  .  ."  The  word  mortgage 
still  could  raise  up  discomforts. 

"Ay.  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  I  wonder  if  you'd  better  see  Bowfield."  He  suddenly 
made  up  his  mind  to  be  frank.  "  It  seems  to  me  as  Mr. 
Tame  has  er  —  well  he  hasn't  paid  back  the  first  and 
second  mortgages  for  from  what  I  can  gather  there's 
£20,000  owing." 

"  What !  .  .  .  Nonsense !  Nonsense !  We  only  bor- 
rowed—  was  it  £2,000  and  then  £6,000  and  er.  .  .  . 
We  paid  off  the  £6,000  when  we  borrowed  the  £12,000  — 
the  last  one." 


392  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  That's  what  I  thought,"  said  Ernest.  "  Now  don't 
get  too  excited.  What's  done  is  done.  Mr.  Tame's  in 
London  .  .  .  funny ! " 

"  It  isn't  funny  at  all." 

Ernest  looked  pained. 

"  I  was  only  meaning  it  was  awkward  he  was  there 
when  the  mortgage  had  to  be  paid  off,  and  he  did  know  it 
had  to  be  paid  off  when  he  went  away." 

Emmie  sat  down.  The  scenes  of  the  parting  with  her 
husband  came  back  to  her.  They  had  the  stamp  and  seal 
of  a  guilty  conscience  over  them.  And  the  letter  .  .  . 
"  Will  write  soon  at  length."  .  .  .  What  did  it  all  mean  ? 
What  had  Reginald  done?  Nothing  bad.  .  .  .  Had  he 
bungled  something?  .  .  . 

"  What  is  it,  Ernest?"  she  said. 

"  Now  don't  take  on,  Mrs.  Tame,"  he  said.  "  If  we 
can  put  it  right,  we  will.  But  it's  no  good  not  facing  the 
facts,  and  we  have  to  find  £20,000  to-day." 

"  Find.     They  must  wait." 

Ernest  shook  his  head. 

"  They  can  take  every  stick  you've  got  —  take  T. 
Booke  &  Son  and  sell  the  whole  place  if  they  want  if  you 
don't  give  them  £20,000  by  noon  to-day." 

Emmie  listened  in  amazement. 

"  Take  and  sell  T.  Booke  &  Son  ...  if  she  did  not 
give  them  £20,000  in  a  few  hours.  It  was  monstrous." 

"  But,"  she  began,  "  hasn't  Mr.  Bowfield  heard  from 
Mr.  Tame?" 

Ernest  nodded. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Had  a  letter  this  morning  —  asking  him  to 
get  the  mortgagees  to  postpone  settlement  for  a  couple  of 
days." 

"Well?" 

"  As  Bowfield  says  —  that's  no  good.     The  mortgagees 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  393 

entered  into  a  contract :  they  lent  money.  They  will  hold 
you  to  the  contract.  Why  should  they  run  risks  ?  At  any 
rate  not  for  a  simple  casual  request  like  that.  Why 
doesn't  Mr.  Tame  tell  them  why  they  should  wait  or  make 
a  promise  or  a  proposal?  But  why  isn't  he  here  now?" 

"  Because  he's  in  London,"  said  Emmie  sharply. 

"  Why  do  we  owe  £20,000  instead  of  £12,000?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  We  can  do  nothing  till  Mr.  Tame 
comes  back." 

"  We'll  have  to,  Mrs.  Tame." 

"  We  can't." 

"  But  you  can't  see  T.  Booke  &  Son  taken  over  "... 

After  a  pause  Emmie  said:  "  Can  we  get  into  touch 
with  Mr.  Tame  —  by  telegram  ?  " 

"  We  can  'phone,"  said  Ernest,  "  if  he's  stopping  at  the 
Cecil." 

"  He  wrote  from  there,"  said  Emmie. 

"  I'll  go  and  'phone.  Don't  you  worry.  We'll  settle 
it  all  right  ifcit's  possible."  And  Ernest  went  out,  leaving 
Emmie  bruised  and  doubtful.  She  recalled  horrible 
things  .  .  .  the  parting.  .  .  .  She  began  to  feel  some- 
thing ominous  in  that  parting.  He  had  not  gone  on  ordi- 
nary business,  the  sudden  resolve.  She  remembered  that. 
He  had  said :  "  Emmie,  I  must  go  to  London."  And 
when  she  had  reminded  him  of  the  mortgage  he  had  said 
he'd  manage  it  all  right.  .  .  .  But  how  was  it  the  sum  was 
£20,000?  That  was  quite  wrong.  They  had  repaid 
£2,000  and  £6,000.  .  .  .  Then  she  was  chilled.  Her 
blood  was  chilled.  Her  blood  seemed  to  run  queerly. 
What  did  it  all  mean  ? 

Ernest  came  in.     Emmie  looked  up  anxiously. 

"Well?" 

"  He's  not  there." 


394  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

The  words  were  pregnant  with  evil.  "  Not  there  .  .  . 
What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  He  isn't  there,"  said  Ernest,  shaking  his  body  a  little. 
"  Hasn't  stayed  there.  He  called  one  day  and  that's  all." 

Emmie,  after  a  pause,  said  with  a  groan,  "  Oh !  Ernest, 
what  does  it  mean?"  Her  face  was  working  painfully. 

"  Don't  give  way  now,  Mrs.  Tame " 

Emmie  gave  a  series  of  quick  gasps  as  if  she  were  mas- 
tering herself. 

"  I  expect  it's  all  excitement  for  nothing,"  she  said  with 
a  brave  show. 

"  Well,  er  .  .  .  h'm.  ...  I  should  be  prepared  if  I 
were  you.  I'll  see  what  can  be  done  and  I'll  go  to  London 
if  you  like." 

"Oh!" 

Emmie's  hands  were  moving  uneasily. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter?  "  she  said  with  a  groan. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what :  we  shall  be  no  worse  by  knowing 
what  ought  to  be  known.  I'll  bring  Bowfield  in  — 
shall  I?" 

Emmie  nodded. 

She  sat  down  and  tried  to  think.  .  .  .  What  had  hap- 
pened? .  .  . 

She  knew  what  had  happened  by  the  time  Mr.  Bowfield 
had  gone. 

The  original  mortgage  had  been  for  £2,000.  Reginald 
had  conducted  all  the  correspondence  with  the  lawyer,  the 
architects,  builders,  etc.  He  had  suggested  to  Emmie  she 
had  better  give  him  a  power  of  attorney  to  sign  all  legal 
documents  relating  to  T.  Booke  &  Son  on  her  behalf. 
She  had  thought  it  a  simple  matter  at  the  time :  in  fact, 
Mr.  Bowfield,  seeing  how  the  relations  were  between 
Emmie  and  her  husband,  considered  the  arrangement  a 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  395 

sensible  one.  The  consequence  was  Emmie  and  Ernest 
thought  they  were  fully  abreast  of  what  was  being  bor- 
rowed, but  they  were  only  told  what  Mr.  Tame  told  them. 
There  had  been  fresh  borrowings  and  Emmie  imagined 
that  the  first  mortgage  was  paid  off  when  the  second  was 
contracted,  and  the  second  paid  off  at  the  third  bor- 
rowing. 

At  first  it  seemed  strange  why  Mr.  Tame  should  have 
said  the  first  and  second  mortgages  were  being  paid  off  if 
they  were  not  —  till  Ernest  went  to  the  bank.  Cheques 
had  been  drawn  for  the  amounts  but  Mr.  Bowfield  had 
not  had  them.  .  .  .  Reginald  had  managed  to  get  hold  of 
the  cash.  .  .  . 

Eight  thousand  pounds.  .  .  .  And  now  he  could  not 
renew  the  mortgage  any  more :  the  money  had  to  be  found. 
He  had  feared  detection  and  bolted. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AT  first  Emmie  felt  crushed.  She  was  humiliated. 
The  man  she  had  married  had  robbed  her.  She 
tried  to  read  his  mind  from  the  incidents  she  could  recall. 
He  loved  her  ...  he  must  have  loved  her.  He  could 
not  have  behaved  as  he  had  if  he  had  not  loved  her.  .  .  . 
Then  why  had  he  done  this  ? 

She  recalled  that  remark  when  he  held  her  face  and  she 
had  said,  "  Going  to  leave  me  ?  "  .  .  .  "I  wish  I  could 
take  you,  Emmie  dear."  There  was  feeling  as  he  said 
that.  .  .  . 

Feeling  .  .  .  she  groaned.  He  had  her  money  in  his 
pocket.  He  was  going  to  spend  it  on  —  what  had  he  done 
with  the  money?  Eight  thousand  pounds.  .  .  . 

.Was  he  just  a  money  hunting  cad,  a  common  thief? 
...  Or  did  he  really  love  her  and  had  he  gambled  say  — 
and  lost  ?  .  .  . 

Oh !  What  was  she  to  do  ?  Everybody  to  know,  too. 
All  the  people  in  Canton  who  had  met  him  would  talk 
about  her  behind  her  back.  .  .  .  The  Bookes.  .  .  .  Aunt 
Jane  and  Aunt  Maria.  .  .  .  She  just  wanted  to  groan. 

Ernest  and  Mr.  Bowfield  had  gone  to  the  office  and 
promised  to  go  into  the  whole  matter  and  report. 

Emmie  went  upstairs  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed 
feeling  numbed.  She  felt  the  whole  affair  must  be  wrong. 
.  .  .  One  of  them  would  come  hurrying  across  in  a  minute 
to  tell  her  they  had  found  out  their  mistake  and  every- 
thing was  all  right.  .  .  . 

But  where  was  Reginald?  He  had  written  that  letter 
from  the  "  Cecil."  .  .  .  Why  was  he  not  there?  Where 

396 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  397 

was  he?  Oh !  the  trick !  to  go  there  just  to  write  the  let- 
ter—  and  the  letter! 

She  found  it.  ...  "  Will  write  soon  at  length  .  .  . 
all  my  love.  .  .  ." 

"  Write  soon  at  length.  .  .  .  Telling  what  had  hap- 
pened, etc.  .  .  ."  Oh! 

Emmie  groaned  and  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and 
wept. 

Mr.  Bowfield  and  Ernest  came  back.  There  was  a 
credit  at  the  bank  of  over  ten  thousand  pounds  —  Mr. 
Tames  had  drawn  out  two  thousand  five  hundred  the 
morning  he  left  —  but  there  were  a  number  of  payments 
due  and  it  would  be  risky  to  reduce  the  balance  by  much. 
However,  if  it  came  to  the  pinch,  Mr.  Bowfield  suggested 
they  could  borrow  from  the  bank  on  the  security  of  the 
works  plus  the  personal  covenants  of  Emmie  and  Ernest, 
who  was  willing  to  put  his  savings,  nearly  three  thousand 
pounds,  into  the  scale  if  need  be.  Mr.  Bowfield  thought 
that  Mr.  Feldham,  the  bank  manager,  would  agree  to 
this  if  he  were  told  exactly  what  had  happened. 

Emmie  at  first  would  not  agree  to  that  at  all.  Noth- 
ing must  be  told  .  .  .  the  thing  must  be  carried  through 
without  the  slightest  suspicion  attaching  to  her  husband's 
name.  After  all,  they  had  not  had  his  version  yet  —  and 
in  any  case  she  wouldn't  have  his  name  mentioned. 

Mr.  Bowfield  and  Ernest  looked  at  one  another  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  Funny  creatures  —  women !  "  and  Mr.  Bow- 
field  said  they  might  not  be  able  to  do  what  they  wanted ; 
the  mortgagees  held  the  whip  hand  and  if  Mrs.  Tame 
wished  to  keep  control  over  her  property  she  might  have 
to  tell  the  whole  truth  to  somebody  if  she  wished  to  get 
money. 

But  Emmie  refused.     She  felt  she  could  go  to  the  stake, 


398  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

lose  all,  become  penniless  in  a  kind  of  heroic  smash  rather 
than  be  humiliated  before  Canton. 

Mr.  Bowfield  grasped  her  attitude.  He  said  he  would 
do  his  best  to  renew  the  mortgage  for  another  four  years. 
The  interest  might  have  to  be  increased  and  he  would  sug- 
gest the  offering  of  a  bonus  of  £200.  If  Mrs.  Tame 
wished  to  keep  things  hidden  she  must  be  willing  to 
pay. 

Emmie  was  quite  willing  to  pay. 

The  mortgagees,  won  by  Mr.  Bowfield's  tact,  agreed  to 
the  renewal :  he  put  it  that  the  business  was  going  ahead 
and  that  every  penny  was  wanted.  The  interest  was 
raised  and  £100  was  accepted  as  a  bonus. 

Emmie  thought  that  part  of  the  affair  was  cheap 
enough. 

Emmie  ate  no  dinner  that  day.     • 

Her  nerves  seemed  set  on  edge  through  beating  against 
the  awful  that  was  known  and  the  rest  that  was  unknown. 

Where  was  Reginald?  What  was  he  going  to  do? 
Why  had  he  taken  the  money?  What  had  he  done  with 
it? 

Emmie  kept  repeating  these  questions  to  herself  till  she 
was  tired.  She  was  always  making  the  same  answers  and 
they  were  all  unsatisfactory.  She  knew  nothing  except 
that  there  seemed  grave  grounds  for  supposing  Reginald 
had  helped  himself  to  large  sums  of  money  and  had  gone 
to  London. 

What  did  he  mean  to  do?  Was  he  going  to  come 
back  ?  .  .  .  Surely  he  did  not  intend  to  leave  her.  .  .  . 

She  seemed  to  wander  round  and  round  in  this  vicious 
circle  of  uncertainly  and  horrible  fact. 

Ernest  came  to  see  her  again  in  the  afternoon  and  sug- 
gested he  should  go  to  London. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  399 

Emmie  acquiesced.  She  felt  she  must  have  news  of  a 
kind. 

"  Nobody  must  know,  Ernest,"  she  said. 

"Know  what?" 

"  Anything." 

"  There's  Bowfield." 

"  He  mustn't  hint  at  anything  —  you  must  tell  him." 

"  You  mean,  of  course,  about  the  money." 

"  I  mean  about  everything  —  about  my  husband  —  that 
he's  gone." 

"  But  if  he  doesn't  er.  .  .  ." 

"  Never  mind.  Leave  it  to  me.  You  and  Mr.  Bow- 
field  must  say  nothing." 

Ernest  nodded.  If  Mr.  Tame  did  not  return  he  felt 
that  something  would  have  to  be  said  by  somebody. 

"  I'll  tell  him,"  he  said. 

"  What  time  will  you  go  to  London  ?  " 

"  I  can  catch  the  four  o'clock  to  Euston :  be  in  soon 
after  eight." 

"  You'll  go  to-night  to  the  Cecil." 

"  Yes.  But  of  course  he  won't  be  there.  ...  It  seems 
almost  useless,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Emmie  pressed  her  hands  tightly  against  her  knees  as 
she  leaned  a  little  forward  in  the  chair. 

"  We  stayed  once  at  the  Russell  Hotel,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  go  there,  too." 

"  And  I  remember  once  he  talked  of  a  hotel  near  Tra- 
falgar Square." 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  Mrs.  Tame.  I'll  go  to  the  Cecil  and 
the  Russell  and  any  likely  hotel  I  can  think  of.  I  may 
catch  him.  But  he's  sure  to  be  in  hiding.  ...  Of 
course,  I  don't  want  to  suggest  anything,  but  as  he  took 
two  thousand  five  hundred  pounds  with  him  he's  money 
for  a  big  long  trip.  ...  He  could  go  to  America  or  Aus- 


400  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

tralia  with  that.  .  .  .  I'll  try  the  P.  and  O.  .  .  .  When 
a  man's  been  to  a  place  once  he  goes  again  —  that's  my 
experience." 

"  How  do  they  go  to  the  East?  "  Emmie  asked. 

"  P.  &  O.  as  a  rule.  Look  here,  don't  you  worry  for 
the  moment.  I'll  go  to  the  Cecil  and  have  a  good  hunt 
round.  I'll  telegraph  the  moment  I  have  any  news  and 
when  I  find  I  can  do  nothing  I'll  come  back.  I  shall  stay 
at  the  Cecil." 

Emmie  nodded. 

"  Don't  stint  yourself,  Ernest.  I  shall  stand  all  your 
expenses,  of  course." 

"  That'll  be  all  right." 

All  the  afternoon  Emmie  was  following  up  hints  and 
suggestions  and  looking  at  the  bank  book  and  speculating 
and  wondering.  She  sat  down  and  she  walked  about. 
She  lay  down  and,  oddly,  wept  the  moment  she  did  so  as 
if  the  easy  attitude  called  forth  a  weakness.  She  wept 
in  the  pillow.  She  began  to  evoke  pictures  of  Reginald 
with  his  head  on  that  pillow.  .  .  .  She  pressed  her  face 
into  it. 

What  had  happened  ?    What  had  happened  ?  ... 

She  said  to  herself  when  she  got  up  she  did  not  mind 
what  he  had  taken  in  the  way  of  money.  They  could  get 
over  it.  Money  was  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow. 
What  was  a  pound  more  or  less?  Ten  thousand  pounds 
for  that  matter.  .  .  .  She  felt  a  scorn  for  money  at  that 
time.  But  Reginald,  her  husband.  .  .  .  He  could  not  be 
replaced.  If  he  were  not  there  her  life  became  quite  an- 
other kind  of  thing.  .  .  . 

She  felt  weak  and  told  herself  she  had  drunk  some  tea 
but  eaten  nothing  all  day.  She  couldn't  eat.  She  looked 
at  the  clock  —  half  past  six. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  401 

When  it  was  half  past  eight  she  wondered  if  she  might 
get  a  telegram  and  was  thrilled  every  time  she  heard  a 
noise  that  sounded  like  the  step  of  some  one  who  might 
be  bringing  a  telegram.  .  .  . 

As  she  undressed  that  night  and  looked  at  herself  in 
the  mirror  she  said :  "  Lord !  I've  put  on  ten  years !  " 

Ernest's  letter,  which  was  to  the  effect  that  he  had  ar- 
rived safely  and  been  to  the  Russell,  Morley's,  Metropole 
and  Victoria  Hotels  and  intended  going  to  the  P.  and  O. 
offices  and  more  hotels  in  the  morning  and  hoped  she 
(Emmie)  was  bearing  up  well,  did  not  arrive  till  mid- 
day, and  by  that  time  it  had  lost  most  of  its  savour  for 
Emmie  had  previously  sent  a  telegram  to  Ernest  to  this 
effect :  "  Had  letter.  Come  back.  Emmie  Tame." 

Emmie  had  boggled  at  the  signature.  Emmie  was  too 
familiar.  Tame  too  something  —  at  least  unpleasant. 
Emmie  Tame  was  a  happy  combination  and  cost  no 
more. 

This  was  the  letter  Emmie  had  received  by  the  first 
post :  — 

MY  DEAR  EMMIE: 

I  have  torn  up  half  a  dozen  letters,  for  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  I  want  to  tell  you.  First,  I  am  a  thief.  I 
have  robbed  you.  I  am  a  mean,  miserable  thief.  I  must 
have  stolen  about  £10,000,  if  not  more.  I  have  no  ex- 
cuse —  yes,  I  have.  I  couldn't  have  done  it  if  I  had  not 
had  an  excuse.  I  had  to  get  the  money,  and  I  can't  tell 
you  the  reason,  that  is  the  awful  part  of  it.  I  don't 
know  what  you  will  think  of  me,  but  I  must  tell  you  that 
I  love  you.  I  feel  too  ashamed  to  write,  but  I  could  not 
leave  you  in  suspense,  for  I  have  left  you  forever  —  left 
the  woman  I  love  best  in  all  the  world.  I  wonder  if  some 
day  I  can  tell  you  why,  and  clear  myself.  At  any  rate, 
not  yet.  Don't  try  to  find  me.  I  am  leaving  England, 


402  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

a  miserable  man.  Forgive  me  for  all  the  trouble  I  have 
caused  you.  I  ask  your  pardon  a  thousand  times.  I 
don't  even  refer  to  the  thefts  —  they  are  mean  beyond 
words.  You  can,  of  course,  prosecute  me  if  you  wish, 
but  I  beg  of  you  not  to.  I  almost  think  it  would  be  best 
if  I  died,  but  —  oh!  forgive  me,  Emmie,  if  you  can.  I 
have  loved  you,  loved  you  deeply  and  truly  and  still  love 
you. 
Farewell. 

Your  ashamed,  miserable,  but  loving 

REGINALD. 

Emmie  read  the  letter  a  score  of  times  and  wept  fresh 
tears  at  each  reading. 

The  tragedy  was  so  unexpected  and  had  come  into  a 
home  where  love  seemed  so  firmly  established  that  the 
blow  was  very  hard  to  bear.  So  far  as  a  comprehension 
of  the  matter  was  concerned  Emmie  felt  in  an  ungraspable 
whirl :  she  could  seize  nothing  but  the  fact  that  Reginald 
had  gone.  That  was  bad  enough:  it  was  that  insistent 
fact  which  mocked  and  taunted  and  tortured  her.  But 
at  each  release  she  would  moan  "  Why  ?  "  and  read  the 
letter  again. 

She  refused  to  go  and  see  Mr.  Booke  and  told  the  maid 
to  tell  him  she  had  a  headache  if  he  should  call,  which  he 
did. 

She  forced  herself  to  eat  something,  but  waited  im- 
patiently for  Ernest  to  come  back.  It  was  very  resolute 
to  keep  the  terrible  secret,  but  it  was  also  very  hard.  She 
could  not  tell  Aunt  Jane  or  Aunt  Maria.  .  .  .  Aunt 
Sophia  might  be  sympathetic.  .  .  .  But  Emmie  refused  to 
allow  herself  the  luxury  of  confession.  She  would  not 
even  venture  to  tell  her  mother  or  sister  —  yet.  She 
could  tell  Ernest,  because  he  practically  knew;  but,  after 
all,  what  was  there  to  do?  Reginald  had  gone  ...  he 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  403 

had  left  her  ...  he  loved  her,  of  course  he  loved  her; 
she  needed  no  more  assurances  on  that  head.  He  loved 
her  and  he  had  robbed  her  and  left  her.  .  .  .  Why? 
Why?  Why? 

When  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  she  said  she 
was  twenty  years  older  —  and  it  didn't  matter. 

She  showed  Ernest  the  letter,  because  she  was  too  weak 
to  do  otherwise.  She  had  to  lean  on  somebody  now  after 
all  this  fasting  and  weeping  and  anxiety. 

He  did  not  say  a  word,  but  quietly  held  the  letter  in  his 
hand  when  he  had  re-read  it. 

Emmie,  red-eyed,  holding  a  screwed  up  handkerchief 
in  her  hand,  said :  "  See?  " 

He  nodded.  He  really  did  not  see  well,  but  Emmie 
was  a  pathetic  figure. 

"  He's  gone,"  she  said,  weeping  afresh. 

"  It's  funny,"  he  said.     "  Except  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  quickly.  He  could  not  say, 
"  Except  he's  a  rogue."  "  It's  mystifying  —  that's  what 
it  is  —  mystifying.  It's  hard  on  you." 

Emmie  kept  shivering. 

"  Go  to  bed,"  he  said.  "  After  a  rest  you'll  know  what 
to  do  better.  Go  to  bed." 

Emmie  really  thought  it  was  good  advice.  She  would 
not  sleep,  but  she  would  rest. 

"  Have  some  gruel  or  beef  tea  or  something  you  fancy : 
get  a  bit  o'  salmon  — " 

"  I  couldn't  eat  it.  I'll  have  some  beef  tea  and  go  to 
bed.  Keep  it  quiet,  Ernest.  In  the  morning  there  might 
be  another  letter.  .  .  .  He  might  write  again.  .  .  . 
We'll  see.  And  I  thank  you  very  much,  Ernest,  for  all 
you've  done." 

"  Don't  thank  me.     I'd  ha'  .      ."  he  shook  his  head. 


404  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  Don't  thank  me.  .  .  .  I'm  always  at  your  service." 
He  spoke  with  sincere  feeling. 

"  I  do,  all  the  same,"  said  Emmie.  "  I'll  go  and  lie 
down." 

He  watched  her  go  and  went  back  to  the  works, looking 
very  thoughtful. 

For  some  days  Emmie  could  not  help  feeling  that  some- 
thing was  going  to  happen.  She  did  not  know  what. 
She  was  not  quite  normal  and  neither  ate  nor  slept,  nor 
thought  well :  she  was  too  tired.  She  kept  trying  to  face 
the  fact  —  Reginald  had  gone  ...  left  her  .  .  .  and  he 
loved  her.  She  kept  repeating  this  to  herself  without  get- 
ting any  nearer  to  an  understanding  of  her  position. 

And  she  would  tell  nobody  the  facts.  Ernest  called 
daily  and  the  question  was  inevitable  from  one  or  the 
other :  "  Any  news  ?  " —  it  meant  news  of  Reginald. 

For  a  week  Emmie  ambled  through  the  twenty-four 
hours  of  each  day,  scarcely  going  outside  the  door,  for 
she  could  not  face  anybody  in  her  present  state  of  mind. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  she  knew  she  must  have  a  change 
or  make  one,  or  she  would  break  down. 

She  decided  she  would  go  to  London,  it  might  not  be 
so  restful  as  a  quiet  seaside  place,  but  it  would  probably 
distract  her  more,  and  if  she  felt  the  need  of  rest  she 
could  go  on  to  Brighton  or  Eastbourne  or  some  other 
Southern  watering  place.  And  he  had  gone  there.  .  .  . 

She  made  up  her  mind  quickly  and  packed  without  say- 
ing a  word  to  any  one,  save  Ernest  and  the  maid,  who  was 
quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  Alice. 

"  You  are  not  going  hunting  after  him,  are  you  ?  " 
Ernest  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Emmie,  but  knowing  quite  well  that  her 
eyes  would  hunt  well  enough. 

"  That's  right.     If  I  were  you  I'd  go  to  one  of  those 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  405 

private  hotels  —  a  boarding-house  —  you'll  meet  people 
you  can  talk  to  and  make  friends  with  sooner  than  in 
some  of  the  big  hotels.  I'll  give  you  the  address  of  one: 
it's  very  comfortable ;  I've  been  myself.  And  go  to  thea- 
tres—  and  to  Hyde  Park  and  Bond  Street  and  Regent 
Street.  And  don't  worry." 

Emmie  nodded. 

"  If  you  hear  anything,  Ernest,  you'll  wire  me  at  once, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  will." 

"Things  otherwise  are  all  right,  aren't  they?" 

"  Yes.  And  I'm  to  say  nothing  except  that  you're  in 
London,  with  your  husband,  eh?" 

"  Let  them  think  so." 

"  I  expect  I  can  put  'em  off,"  he  said. 

Emmie  always  felt  a  kind  of  excitement  when  travel- 
ling by  train,  due  to  the  fact  that  her  train  journeys  had 
almost  invariably  been  the  preludes  to  pleasure.  Even 
now  as  she  kept  wondering  where  Reginald  was,  what  he 
was  doing  and  why  events  had  happened  as  they  had,  she 
was  stirred  by  the  sight  of  people  at  the  station  and  had 
to  speculate  about  them,  where  they  were  going,  if  they 
were  happy,  and  how  neatly  and  really  rather  cheaply 
dressed  one  lady  was. 

When  she  arrived  at  Euston  she  was  excited  again  in  a 
small  way.  This  was  London.  .  .  .  She  was  alone.  .  .  . 
And  the  people  hurrying,  lounging,  watching,  racing, 
stirred  her  even  as  she  got  a  porter  to  look  after  her  lug- 
gage. All  these  people  who  waited  about  the  van  for 
their  boxes  and  portmanteaux  had  a  look  of  something 
extra  on  their  faces.  After  all,  they  had  made  a  journey 
for  something,  for  pleasure  or  necessity,  for  better  or 
worse.  .  .  .  Emmie  saw  one  pretty  wife  watching  her 


406  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

husband  gather  their  belongings  and  she  felt,  not  jealous, 
but  as  if  her  own  position  were  brought  into  relief  and 
made  more  poignant. 

She  was  abandoned :  her  husband  had  left  her  .  .  .  she 
felt  very  lonesome  as  she  sat  in  the  hansom  and  was 
driven  to  the  private  hotel  near  Russell  Square. 

The  experience  of  the  railway  journey  was  reproduced 
in  the  hotel.  Emmie  was  at  once  interested  in  the  people 
she  saw  and  yet  could  not  escape  from  her  own  trouble, 
which  seemed  to  weigh  upon  her  more  and  more  heavily 
when  she  was  alone  in  her  room.  In  fact,  although  she 
could  in  a  way  enjoy  herself  in  looking  at  the  shops  and 
the  well  dressed  people,  she  felt  more  depressed  than 
ever  at  night  when  she  considered  she  was  a  unit  in  this 
great  hive  of  seven  million  people,  none  of  whom  she 
could  call  friend  at  this  hour  of  her  distress.  She  began 
to  feel  worse  than  at  Ganton  —  and  in  a  couple  of  days 
went  on  to  Brighton,  hoping  the  sea,  which  she  loved,  and 
the  sea  air  would  do  her  good. 

She  was  a  little  better  there,  but  she  thought  she  saw 
more  happy  couples  there  than  in  London  and  that  probed 
her.  She  was  too  frequently  reminded  of  her  trouble. 
She  stayed  at  an  hotel  on  the  front,  and  the  constant 
stream  of  pleasant  folk  did  not  give  her  the  balm  she 
wished  to  find. 

She  sat  on  the  beach  and  watched  the  waves  break  and 
gambol  on  the  shingle ;  she  saw  the  whirling  and  whorling 
of  the  beaten  foam  and  would  insist  on  interpreting  it  in 
a  mood  of  sadness;  it  recalled  the  wasted  effort  of  life, 
the  struggling  and  struggling  and  disappointment.  The 
sea  itself  began  to  wear  an  aspect  of  heartlessness :  there 
was  no  kindness  in  it. 

And  as  she  sat  watching  the  surging  sea  she  looked 
towards  the  horizon :  there  was  Reginald  .  .  .  somewhere 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  407 

there  ...  in  that  vast  beyond,  a  mere  unit  like  she  was, 
and  to  be  with  him  again  appeared  as  difficult  a  task 
as  to  bring  together  two  drops  of  water  from  separate 
oceans.  .  .  . 

Ernest  wrote  each  day  to  tell  her  of  business  matters, 
but  Emmie  saw  the  business  was  mere  excuse.  He  tried 
to  cheer  her  and  the  effort  was  palpable.  It  was  almost 
pathetic  in  her  eyes  and  won  her  gradually  to  face  the 
inexorable. 

She  wept  in  her  room. 

If  only  she  could  have  known  everything  she  thought 
she  would  have  been  happier,  and  yet  she  began  to  con- 
sider she  knew  enough.  Her  husband  had  gone.  She 
had  to  get  that  fact  in  her  head  and  system.  She  had  no 
husband  —  he  had  left  her.  She  would  daily  see  other 
women  with  their  husbands,  but  she  must  try  not  to  think 
of  herself.  She  must  face  the  fact  and  not  dream  of 
what  she  desired  and  longed  for. 

It  was  a  hard  struggle,  but  Emmie  won.  She  found 
after  three  or  four  days  at  Brighton  that  she  began  to 
watch  things  going  on  without  a  desire  to  weep  because 
she  could  no  longer  turn  to  her  husband  and  say,  "  Regi- 
nald, do  you  see  that?  "  or  tell  him  all  about  it  when  she 
got  home. 

And  while  she  was  there  she  tried  to  make  up  her  mind 
that  she  would  stay  in  Canton.  You  cannot  go  through 
life  without  telling  people  what  happened  to  you  —  at 
least,  not  in  Canton,  and  Emmie  imagined  it  was  not  very 
different  there  from  other  places.  She  could  not  say 
Reginald  was  dead.  .  .  .  She  could  just  tell  the  truth: 
she  would  say  her  husband  had  left  her.  The  discreet 
would  ask  no  more  —  of  her,  and  what  they  said  to  others 
would  not  matter. 


408  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  write  to  "  Grandpa  "  and 
Aunts  Jane,  Maria,  and  Sophia,  as  well  as  to  her  father 
and  mother.  She  would  tell  them  the  bare  fact  of  Regi- 
nald's going,  say  she  could  not  give  them  the  reason,  and 
ask  them  not  to  pester  her  with  questions  nor  to  tell  any- 
body else  till  she  gave  them  permission. 

But  the  writing  of  the  letters  tired  her.  Every  time 
she  came  to  the  words,  "  My  husband  has  left  me,"  she 
was  shaken  with  emotion.  More  than  one  of  the  letters 
bore  the  impress  of  her  tears.  The  vision  raised  by  the 
words  was  a  vision  cruel  and  black,  and  Emmie  put  the 
pen  down  more  than  once  and  wondered  why  and  how 
and  why  and  why,  and  wept  and  prayed.  .  .  . 

She  wrote  to  Ernest : 

DEAR  ERNEST: 

I  intend  coming  back  to-morrow.  I  have  told  Mr. 
Booke  my  husband  has  left  me  —  also  my  aunts.  I  shall 
say  I  can't  give  the  reason.  I  can't  keep  it  secret  from 
them,  but  there  will  be  no  necessity  to  tell  anybody  else 
for  a  long  time  yet :  it  can  get  out  as  it  likes.  Brighton 
is  very  nice,  but  I've  had  enough  of  it  for  the  present. 
I  expect  to  be  home  about  five. 

Yours  sincerely, 

EMMIE  TAME. 

When  Ernest  received  that  letter  he  read  it  again  and 
again.  He  sighed.  He  was  saying  to  himself :  "  I 
wonder  if  she  would  have  had  me  if  I  had  only  asked  her 
to  marry  me  when  I  hesitated  ?  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Booke  called  on  Emmie  the  day  she  returned  from 
Brighton. 

She  was  still  handsome,  but  there  were  signs  of  suffer- 
ing to  be  observed.  She  carried  herself  well. 

"  So  he's  left  you,  has  he?  "  Mr.  Booke  said,  when  the 
greetings  were  over. 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  409 

"  Yes,"  replied  Emmie,  almost  calmly. 

"  H'mm  .  .  .  are  you  sorry?  " 

"  Yes."  She  had  to  catch  at  her  throat  as  she  said 
that.  The  emotion  the  question  stirred  up  was  moving. 

"Oh!  .  .  .  And  no  questions,  eh?" 

"  No."  She  whispered  that.  "  I  can  say  nothing, 
Grandpa."  She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  wept. 

He  patted  her  on  the  back.  "  Things  all  right  in  ... 
business?  "  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  all  right,  then.  .  .  .  You  must  forget,  Emmie, 
and  don't  dwell  on  what  can't  be  helped.  I  suppose  I  can 
do  nothing  for  you  ?  " 

"  No  —  nobody  can  do  anything." 

He  nodded. 

"  I'll  come  in  and  see  you  now  and  again,"  he  said. 

"  Do,  Grandpa." 

Mrs.  Grass  was  the  first  of  the  aunts  to  call. 

"  What's  this,  Emmie  ?  "  she  said.     "  Tell  me  about  it." 

"  I've  told  you  all  there  is  to  be  told." 

"He's  left  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  for?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  Don't  you  know?  " 

Emmie  hesitated. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  ask  me,"  she  said. 

"  Oh!  but  leaving  you.  .  .  .  Why?  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  —  I  can't  explain." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  like  it.     What  did  he  say?  " 

"It  doesn't  matter,  does  it?"  said  Emmie.  "He's 
gone." 

"  Gone.  .  .  .  Well !  But  he  must  have  said  something 
or  er  —  where  is  he  now  ?  " 


410  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Don't  know  ?  .  .  .  Has  he  ?  ...  Er  ...  is  there 
another  woman  ?  " 

Emmie  sighed. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Er.  .  .  .  It's  terrible.  I  can't  understand  it :  you 
looked  so  happy.  When  did  he  go?  " 

"  A  week  yesterday." 

"  A  week  yesterday.     Did  he  say  anything?  " 

"  Good-bye  —  nothing  more." 

"  Just  good-bye  —  as  usual,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Just  as  usual,  eh  ?  And  I  suppose  you  thought  every- 
thing was  as  usual  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  H'm.  And  he'd  left  you !  Dear !  Dear !  And  he 
wrote,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Saying  he'd  left  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  I'm  not  going  to  show  you  the  letter,  Aunt  Sophia. 
He  said  he'd  left  me." 

"  Didn't  mention  another  woman  or  anything  like 
that?" 

"  No." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  And  where  did  he  write  from  ?  " 

"  London." 

"  London,  eh  ?  It  is  a  —  er  —  something  startling, 
eh?  Well,  you  were  warned,  weren't  you?  " 

"  I  didn't  want  any  warning,"  said  Emmie.  "  And  I 
don't  want  anything  nasty  said  now." 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  411 

"  Emmie !  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  say  anything  nasty  just 
now  to  you.  I'm  sure  you  must  be  upset.  Come  and 
have  some  tea  with  me  —  er  —  come  in  to-night,  when 
Fred's  in." 

"  Not  to-night,  thanks,"  said  Emmie. 

"  I  expect  you  do  feel  worried.  Of  course,  I'm  very 
sorry,  Emmie.  I  feel  full  of  sympathy  for  you.  It  is, 
of  course,  a  terrible  thing  to  lose  your  husband  like  that; 
but  —  er  .  .  .  and  people  will  talk,  too.  .  .  ." 

"  They  can  talk  as  much  as  they  like,"  said  Emmie. 

And  then  Mrs.  Holten  and  Miss  Booke  came  in.  They 
both  kissed  Emmie.  Their  attitudes  suggested  the  sinis- 
ter and  the  sad  as  if  they  were  not  in  a  mood  to  revel 
to-day,  although  a  very  keenly  penetrating  mind  might 
have  noted  the  adumbration  of  satisfaction  in  Miss 
Booke's  attitude.  The  flag,  "  I  told  you  so,"  was  hidden 
somewhere  about  her,  but  she  carried  it  and  it  gave  her 
comfort. 

Mrs.  Holten  began: 

"  This  is  news,  Emmie." 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  feeling  that  she  had  to  explain 
and  that  she  both  wanted  and  did  not  want  to  talk  about 
her  sorrow.  She  really  wished  to  talk  about  it  only  in 
the  way  that  gave  her  comfort,  which  was  not  the  way 
of  the  Booke  ladies. 

Miss  Booke  snorted. 

"Left  you,  eh?" 

"  Yes,"  Emmie  sat  upright:  she  tried  to  be  brave. 

"What's  he  left  you  for?" 

"  I  don't  know."  Emmie  had  to  struggle  a  little,  for 
there  was  the  hint  of  a  stab  in  the  manner  and  the  sub- 
stance. 

"  Must  have  had  a  reason,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

Emmie  was  silent. 


412  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  asked  Mrs.  Holten. 

"That  he'd  left  me!" 

"But  why?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  And  have  you  no  idea?  "  asked  Miss  Booke. 

"No!" 

"  Funny.     Had  you  been  quarrelling  at  all  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Very  funny!     Another  woman,  eh?" 

Emmie  said  nothing. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Booke,  "  if  ever  I  had  a  presenti- 
ment about  a  man,  I  had  about  Reginald  Tame." 

"  You  were  certainly  warned  enough,  Emmie,"  said 
Mrs.  Holten. 

"  That's  what  I  said,"  ventured  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  Warning.  .  .  .  And  all  that  secrecy.  .  .  .  And  we 
shall  reap  the  scandal,"  said  Miss  Booke. 

Emmie  was  silent. 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  There's  something  to  be  explained.  Have  you  sus- 
pected him  of  carrying  on  with  anybody  else,  Em- 
mie?" 

"  No."     Emmie  moved  uncomfortably  in  her  chair. 

"  There's  something  .  .  ."  said  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  Of  course,  there's  something,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 

"  I  should  think  there  is  something,"  added  Miss 
Booke.  "  A  man  doesn't  leave  his  wife,  his  rich  wife,  too, 
without  some  good  reason." 

Mrs.  Holten  shook  her  head. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Emmie?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"Nothing!" 

"  Nothing." 

"  But   you   must   do    something,"    said   Miss   Booke. 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  413 

"  You  can't  sit  there  and  do  nothing  —  what  are  you 
going  to  tell  people  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Ridiculous !  "  ejactulated  Miss  Booke. 

"  You  must  say  something,  Emmie,"  said  Mrs.  Holten. 
"  You  can't  be  silent.  If  people  ask  you  how  your  hus- 
band is,  what  shall  you  say?" 

"  Very  well,  thank  you." 

"Rubbish!" 

"  Emmie !     Emmie !  "  expostulated  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  That's  silly,"  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "  You'll  have  to  say 
you  don't  know,  and  then  they'll  want  to  know  why,  or 
you'll  have  to  say  something  to  keep  them  quiet." 

"  Suppose,"  said  Emmie,  "  you  let  out  the  news  that 
my  husband  has  left  me;  that  will  do.  It  will  be  all  over 
Ganton  in  no  time,  and  then  nobody  will  ask  me  how  my 
husband  is.  .  .  ." 

Emmie's  nerves  seemed  to  have  reached  the  limit  of 
endurance.  Her  chin  was  twitching  and  she  had  a  hand- 
kerchief screwed  up  tightly  in  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Holten  looked  sympathetic.  So,  for  that  matter, 
did  Mrs.  Grass. 

Miss  Booke  could  not  refrain  from  saying:  "  If  you'd 
only  been  advised  by  us !  " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  be  advised  by  you,"  said  Emmie 
quickly,  with  glistening  eyes. 

"  No.  That's  your  mistake.  And  that's  why  you  are 
suffering  now.  I  don't  say  it  serves  you  right,  though 
many  might  think  it :  a  good  many  might  say  it  was  not 
only  what  was  to  be  expected,  but  what  you  deserved. 
You  had  a  beautiful  home  and  two  children  and  you 
wouldn't  be  advised.  You  would  run  after  the  man  in 
spite  of  all  the  warning  you  got — " 

Emmie  got  up. 


414  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

"If  you're  going  on  like  that,  Aunt  Maria,  I'm  going 
upstairs." 

Aunt  Maria  raised  her  head  and  sniffed. 

Mrs.  Holten  moved  uneasily:  she  liked  to  stab,  but 
fixed  limits  for  her  attacks. 

Mrs.  Grass  was  saying  to  herself:  "  Maria's  gone  too 
far,  as  usual." 

Miss  Booke  said :  "  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  have  it 
said  that  I  didn't  warn  you.  I'm  sorry,  Emmie ;  but  .  .  . 
well,  you  must  admit  you  were  warned." 

Emmie  said  sharply :  "  You  didn't  want  me  to  marry 
again  —  that's  all  the  warning  you  gave  me.  I  didn't 
want  your  warning.  If  I  could  have  my  time  over  again 
I'd  do  it  again.  You  don't  know  why  Reginald's  gone, 
and  it's  very  nasty  of  you  at  a  time  like  this  to  come  here 
and  shout  at  me  that  you  warned  me.  I  don't  want  that 
kind  of  sympathy." 

"Who  shouted?  "  said  Aunt  Jane. 

Emmie  did  not  answer.  She  was  thrusting  a  handker- 
chief to  her  mouth. 

"  Of  course,  it's  hard  on  you,  Emmie,  and  you're  in 
trouble.  We'll  do  anything  to  help  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hol- 
ten. "  It's  a  scandal,  and  we're  in  it :  but  we  shall  stand 
by  you.  You  must  bear  up  and  remember  the  family. 
Your  children's  names  are  Booke  and  you'll  have  to  live 
down  this  affair  for  their  sakes.  We'll  help  you,  only 
it's  no  good  getting  excited  or  in  a  temper.  You  made  a 
mistake  in  your  second  marriage  —  that's  evident." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't,  Aunt  Jane." 

Mrs.  Holten  sat  up  and  looked  cross.  Contradicted 
like  this.  .  .  . 

"  Emmie !  "  said  Miss  Booke. 

"  It's  evident,"  repeated  Mrs.  Holten,  "  since  your  hus- 
band has  left  you." 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  415 

"  It  is  not  evident,"  paid  Emmie,  flushing. 

Mrs.  Holten  rose. 

Miss  Booke  rose. 

So  did  Mrs.  Grass. 

"  One  thing  is  evident,"  said  Mrs.  Holten.  "  You 
are  not  in  a  mood  to  talk  reasonably." 

Emmie  said  very  quickly :  "  You  can  let  yourselves 
out,  can't  you?  " 

The  three  ladies  looked  aghast. 

"  Well !  "  said  Miss  Booke.  "  And  to  think  that  this 
is  our  home !  " 

Emmie  walked  out  of  the  dining-room  upstairs. 

Emmie  kept  on  good  terms  with  Mr.  Booke  and  left 
her  aunts  severely  alone.  They  came  round.  It  was 
hard,  but  first  Mrs.  Grass  called  and  attempted  justifica- 
tion: then  Mrs.  Holten  called  and  indulged  in  mild  ex- 
postulation, which  Emmie  could  always  bear  up  to  a  cer- 
tain point,  and  Miss  Booke  seemed  to  sniff  her  way  back 
to  normal  intercourse. 

Emmie  told  her  own  family  —  merely  the  fact  that 
Reginald  had  gone,  and  she  did  not  know  why.  They 
were  sympathetic  and  happily  did  not  attempt  to  probe 
beneath  the  bandages.  Emmie,  of  course,  was  their  bene- 
factress. 

The  news  spread  over  Ganton  and  caused  a  topic  to  be 
started  in  almost  every  public  and  private  place.  Every- 
body knew  "  Tim  Booke's  widow  as  married  Master 
Tame ! "  In  the  club  the  news  spread,  in  bar  parlours, 
in  workshops,  bodymakers'  shops,  plankers'  shops,  fin- 
ishers' shops,  trimming-rooms.  ..."  Mr.  Tame  gone  — 
left  her."  "  What  —  him  as  married  Tim  Booke's 
widow  —  Emmie  Bollins  as  was.  .  .  ." 

On  doorsteps,  in  rooms,  in  the  street  they  found  rea- 


416  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

sons  and  said  they  couldn't  understand  it.  And  then, 
quietly  like,  all  those  things  that  come  with  a  burst  on  a 
human  family,  the  topic  slowly  sank  to  a  whisper  and 
almost  died.  It  was  revived  occasionally  by  some  odd 
thing  that  reminded  some  one  of  Mr.  Tame  or  of  T. 
Booke  &  Son,  or  something  almost  obscure. 

The  children  faced  the  news.  They  only  knew  their 
daddy  had  gone  away.  At  first  they  pestered,  "  Why," 
and,  "  When  is  he  coming  back  ?  "  But  they  understood 
at  last  that  he  had  gone  away  for  good  and  were  generally 
hushed  by  other  people  when  they  asked  indiscreet  ques- 
tions, and  so  acquired  that  old-young  wisdom  that  tells 
of  the  thing  to  be  avoided. 

Emmie,  on  the  whole,  bore  herself  well.  She  took  a 
keener  interest  in  the  business.  She  did  her  best  not  to 
mope,  and  succeeded.  There  were  odd  moments  (and 
fairly  frequent,  too)  when  she  felt  neglected,  when  she 
stood  in  front  of  the  mirror  and  knew  that  she  was  good 
looking  and  healthy,  and  wondered  why  Reginald  should 
have  left  her.  There  were  one  or  two  grey  hairs  peeping 
in  her  thick  black  coils,  but  they  were  nothing.  She  was 
still  very  active,  very  vigorous  and  young.  .  .  .  And  she 
was  deserted.  .  .  . 

But  she  never  moaned  in  public,  though  she  often  felt 
her  biggest  blows  when  others  were  about  to  remind  her 
unwillingly  that  she  had  been  abandoned  by  her  hus- 
band. .  .  . 

T.  Booke  &  Son  prospered.  Reginald's  schemes  had 
turned  out  excellent,  and  Ernest's  capable  management 
saw  that  there  was  no  turning  back. 

Emmie  was  most  desirous  of  repaying  that  mortgage. 
It  was  always  a  source  of  trouble  to  her,  and  she  im- 
pressed on  Ernest  the  injunction  that  all  profits  so  far  as 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  417 

possible  should  be  put  on  one  side,  so  that  the  £20,000 
could  be  repaid  at  the  earliest  possible  date.  T.  Booke  & 
Son  did  now  an  enormous  foreign  trade.  Their  big  buy- 
ing and  making  on  a  big  scale  allowed  them  to  produce  a 
hat  that  could  not  be  beaten  at  the  price  and  they  got 
their  reward.  They  had  to  be  prepared  for  slack  times, 
but  Ernest  was  now  confident  there  was  nothing  to  fear. 

The  first  year  after  Reginald  had  gone  the  profits  were 
nearly  six  thousand  pounds.  Emmie  paid  Ernest  a  salary 
of  £500  a  year  and  gave  him  '$%  on  the  net  profits,  so 
that  his  income  was  about  £800. 

In  the  following  four  years  the  total  profits  were 
£30,000.  The  mortgage  was  paid  off  and  Emmie  put  her 
income  at  something  like  £8000  a  year.  She  encouraged 
Ernest  to  spend  on  improvements  out  of  income  and  in- 
sisted on  his  keeping  up  the  enterprise  that  Reginald  had 
initiated. 

Tim  left  Uppingham  and  wanted  to  go  to  Oxford. 
But  Emmie  said,  No.  There  was  a  business  for  him 
and  she  was  afraid  Oxford  would  only  lead  him  into 
spendthrift  habits  and  perhaps  make  him  despise  hatting. 
He  already  said  he  wanted  to  go  into  the  Army  and 
Emmie  had  to  handle  him  very  tactfully.  She  sent  him 
on  the  continent  for  eighteen  months  to  make  him  more 
proficient  in  French  and  German,  and  then  to  the  United 
States  for  six  months  to  help  the  firm's  representative 
there,  so  that  he  could  learn  American  methods  and  un- 
derstand the  American  market. 

Alice  was  sent  to  Manchester  High  School  and  then  to 
Switzerland,  and  developed  into  a  very  pretty  and  at- 
tractive girl. 

Canton  changed  slowly  as  some  towns  do :  but  the  great 
stream  of  life  carried  people  to  harbour  and  brought  on 


418  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

the  fresh  human  freights,  each  with  its  tale  of  promise 
and  hope. 

Emmie  quietly  accumulated  money.  T.  Booke  &  Son 
continued  to  prosper  though  it  had  some  bad  months  now 
and  again.  The  change  that  affects  everything  did  not 
leave  Emmie  alone.  Grey  hairs  began  to  thrust  them- 
selves here  and  there  among  Emmie's  fine  black  tresses 
and  she  could  not  refrain  from  regarding  them  as  in- 
terlopers, which  should  be  eradicated  at  once.  She  grew 
a  little  bigger  —  but  could  not  be  described  as  stout,  and 
kept  her  figure  remarkably  well.  She  had  shocks  when 
she  thought  she  might  "  get  fat,"  but  was  always  subse- 
quently relieved.  She  still  had  a  fine  straight  carriage 
and  brisk  walk. 

That  Reginald  should  fade  from  her  memory  was,  of 
course,  unthinkable;  he  occupied  far  more  of  her  thoughts 
than  many  of  her  friends  imagined.  Never  a  day  passed 
but  she  recalled  some  incident  of  the  past,  wondered 
where  he  was,  what  he  was  doing,  or  why  he  went.  .  .  . 

It  was  as  if  she  held  firmly  to  something  cherished  while 
tides  ebbed  and  flowed,  storms  beat  and  the  sun  shone  and 
she  watched  all,  lived  with  all,  marched  bravely  and 
brightly  with  the  passing  of  the  years  talking  to  few  of 
her  heart's  anchorage. 

The  business  occupied  her  attention  considerably,  but 
she  also  lived  again  in  her  children.  She  had  been  a  very 
sensible  mother,  taking  her  task  of  training  them  seri- 
ously and  never  regarding  as  a  perquisite  of  her  position 
a  right  to  pry  constantly  or  to  attempt  to  mould  them  in 
every  little  way  and  custom.  She  had  her  reward,  for 
the  children  both  loved  and  respected  her. 

As  Alice  grew  up  Emmie  saw  herself  once  more  as  the 
girl  who  had  gone  on  Saturday  nights  "  to  pick  up  some 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  419 

chap  or  other,"  and  she  was  glad  her  own  daughter  was 
not  driven  as  it  were  by  drabness  to  find  her  amusement 
in  that  fashion. 

And  when  Alice  began  to  be  noticed  first  at  a  dance 
held  at  the  Conservative  Club  and  then  apparently  at  ten- 
nis with  patient  persistency  by  a  young  lawyer  named 
Grayson,  so  that  gossip  reached  Helston  House,  Emmie 
felt  stirred  with  pleasure.  She  was  sorry  to  imagine  the 
house  without  Alice,  but  the  young  man  was  well  spoken 
of,  well  connected,  and  seemed  likely  to  make  a  good  hus- 
band, and  Emmie  felt  she  would  be  glad  to  assist  her 
daughter  to  the  new  chapter  in  her  life,  a  chapter  like  that 
which  had  been  of  supreme  happiness  to  the  mother. 

The  young  people  arranged  matters  very  speedily. 
Alice  was  very  frank  with  her  mother,  and  told  her  far 
more  than  a  young  man  would  have  told  his  father  and 
mother  under  similar  circumstances.  The  buying  of 
linen  and  the  trousseau  was  a  labour  of  love  for  Emmie. 
She  had  been  well  blessed  in  her  marriage:  she  deter- 
mined her  daughter  should  have  every  chance.  Emmie 
was  not  afraid  of  custom.  She  knew  many  parents  in 
this  country,  even  when  they  had  money,  were  not 
ashamed  to  turn  their  daughters  out  with  a  feast  and  very 
little  besides,  but  she  had  no  worship  for  money.  What 
could  she  do  with  all  the  money  she  was  now  making? 
She  went  to  Mr.  Bowfield  and  settled  £10,000  on  Alice 
and  gave  a  wedding  feast  that  easily  put  hers  in  the 
shade,  but  one  that  gave  the  Booke  ladies  exceeding  com- 
fort, for  was  not  Alice  a  Booke? 

Tim  was  not  quite  so  easily  disposed  of,  and  Emmie 
was  reminded  of  those  women  who  used  to  moan  over 
the  trouble  their  children  caused  them.  But  she  was 
robust  in  her  attitude  and  faced  difficulties  frankly  (won- 


420  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

dering  now  and  then  if  some  of  these  moaning  women 
expected  the  world  to  be  swept  and  cleaned  for  them; 
or  if  difficulties  and  trials  had  no  business  to  appear  be- 
fore them). 

But  Tim  noticing  a  trimmer ! 

That  really  gave  Emmie  a  shock.  She  scarcely  slept 
all  night  after  Ernest  had  told  her.  She  grasped  Aunt 
Jane's  and  Aunt  Maria's  and  Aunt  Sophia's  points  of 
view  in  a  flash  —  far  more  intensely  than  she  had  done 
imaginatively  years  before.  She  was  troubled:  pained: 
inclined  to  see  something  black  in  the  affair. 

The  son  repeating  the  father's  way.  And  why  not? 
Was  not  she  —  Emmie  —  once  a  trimmer  ?  But  that  was 
different ! 

Emmie  refused  to  befool  herself.  She  knew  now  that 
she  had  been  a  fit  mate  for  Tim's  father :  it  was  possible 
Tim,  junior,  might  find  a  wife  amongst  the  trimmers 
equal  to  her  —  Emmie.  If  he  did  not :  that  would  be  the 
only  difference.  At  any  rate,  she  had  more  sense  than 
try  the  game  the  Bookes  had  played:  that  wasn't  much 
good. 

Emmie  quietly  gathered  information  about  the  girl  — 
Sarah  Tellings.  There  was  nothing  against  her.  She 
had  red  hair,  a  daring  look,  and  an  obvious  figure. 
Emmie  sniffed  at  this  repetition  of  herself  —  as  a  fine 
actress  sees  a  poor  understudy. 

She  sent  Tim  away  to  the  East  to  develop  the  Japanese 
trade  —  well  worth  the  money,  she  said  to  Ernest,  "  and 
if  he  sees  anybody  on  the  boat,  so  much  the  better  —  they 
won't  be  (she  almost  said  "trimmers")  Sarah  Tell- 
ings. .  .  ." 

Ernest  agreed.  The  Japanese  market  could  do  with  a 
bit  of  stirring  up. 

Tim's  voyage  was  a  triumph  all  round :  his  letters  were 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  421 

a  source  of  pride  and  interest  to  the  whole  family  and 
were  published  in  the  local  papers  as  interesting  matter; 
business  was  improved,  and  when  Tim  returned  Sarah 
Tellings  was  walking  out  with  a  bodymaker. 

Every  now  and  again  Emmie  had  a  feeling — "  If  Tim 
picks  up  with  somebody  at  Belle  Vue.  ..."  A  sort  of 
ghost  from  the  past  to  haunt  and  harass  her.  Imagine 
her  relief  when  Tim  casually  told  her  one  day  he  was  en- 
gaged to  a  Miss  Westlake. 

Emmie  kissed  her  son  and  was  filled  with  so  many 
emotions  at  the  moment  she  shed  tears,  the  first  for  some 
years. 

She  was  very  happy  at  Tim's  choice,  for  Alice  West- 
lake  was  a  sweet  girl  Tim  had  met  in  Switzerland  the 
year  after  he  returned  from  Japan.  Her  father  was  a 
doctor  in  Wilmslow  and  Alice  was  the  only  child. 

Emmie  began  to  see  the  autumn  of  life  coming  to  her 
pleasantly  with  a  rich  fulness  and  a  bounteous  promise 
for  the  remaining  seasons.  She  was  a  grandmother,  and 
her  children  were  a  great  joy  to  her.  She  had  few  cares. 
Her  life  had  not  been  without  its  troubles,  but  that  is  a 
commonplace  for  all  human  beings,  and  they  can  be  called 
well  favoured  who  meet  all  things  with  patience  and  good 
hope.  Emmie  began  to  picture  herself  in  a  house  of  her 
own,  visiting  her  children  and  grandchildren  and  being 
visited  by  them  and  watching  the  firm,  T.  Booke  &  Son, 
continue  in  prosperity.  She  was  what  is  termed  "  a  suc- 
cessful woman."  She  was  rich,  still  handsome,  able  to 
enjoy  life,  and  the  middle  forties  touched  her  lightly. 
But  ever  and  again  she  dwelt  on  that  sudden  and  inex- 
plicable —  to  her  —  disappearance  of  the  man  she  loved. 
That  was  her  burden.  Well,  there  are  few  without  some 
care,  some  gnawing  at  the  heart  that  brings  a  vision  of  the 


422  AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN 

might-have-been  in  opposition  to  the  thing  that  is.  Life 
that  is  emptied  of  all  trouble  scarcely  seems  full.  She 
dreamt  dreams  when  alone  that  she  told  to  no  one. 

She  and  Tim  had  breakfast  together  —  it  was  almost 
the  eve  of  Tim's  marriage  —  and  he  read  the  Guardian 
as  his  father  and  step-father  had  done.  Emmie  looked 
at  her  letters  —  quite  a  pile,  for  Tim's  wedding  incited 
correspondence.  She  always  ran  over  the  addresses  be- 
fore opening  them  to  pick  out  favourites.  Suddenly  her 
heart  beat  faster.  She  was  silent  a  moment :  but  a  gust 
of  emotion  swept  through  her. 

"  Tim,"  she  said  in  a  quiet  voice,  unsteady,  but  full  of 
colour. 

"  Yes,  Mother."  He  looked  up  at  once,  roused  by  the 
tone. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said,  as  if  she  could  scarcely  talk  of 
what  she  fancied. 

Tim  was  going  to  look  again  at  his  paper  when  he  no- 
ticed the  extraordinary  expression  on  his  mother's  face. 

"Anything  the  matter,  Mother?"  he  asked. 

Emmie  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  ."  She  turned  the  envelope  over 
and  then  scrutinised  the  letter  once  more.  "  I  do  believe 
that's  from  .  .  .  your  father."  She  almost  gasped  the 
words. 

Tim  looked  at  her. 

"  Father.  .  .  .  Well,  open  it  and  see." 

Emmie  seemed  afraid.  She  took  a  knife,  but  even 
then  had  to  look  again  at  the  handwriting  before  she 
could  break  the  seal.  What  fate  was  in  that  envel- 
ope? .  .  . 

Tim  watched  her,  saying  to  himself,  "  Father  .  .  ." 
and  wondered  what  it  meant. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  423 

Emmie  nodded,  and  said  quickly :  "  Yes.  .  .  .  From 
him." 

Tim  was  silent.  He  ignored  the  Guardian  and  waited 
for  his  mother  to  speak. 

Emmie  trembled,  and  her  colour  had  gone. 

"  Oh!  ...  oh!  ...  oh! "  she  said  after  a  time,  and 
got  out  a  handkerchief,  though  she  did  not  cry.  It  was 
as  if  she  thought  she  was  going  to  weep  and  found  she 
couldn't.  It  was  a  long  letter. 

"  What  is  it,  Mother  ?     What  does  he  say  ?  " 

"  Read  it,"  and  she  handed  the  letter,  but  before  Tim 
could  take  it  she  said,  "  No,"  and  pulled  it  back.  "  Oh !  " 
she  said.  "  He's  here  —  in  London.  .  .  .  He  wants  to 
see  me.  .  .  .  Oh !  I  don't  understand.  .  .  .  Read  it  — 
No!  No!" 

"  Mother,"  said  Tim,  going  to  her,  "  don't  worry. 
Don't  be  distressed.  You  mustn't  be  made  unhappy." 

"  I'm  not  unhappy,  Tim."  She  trembled  as  if  she  were 
stirred  by  happiness  that  had  come  too  suddenly :  or  hap- 
piness mixed  with  something  evil  —  a  bittersweet,  with 
the  bitter  and  the  sweet  both  powerful. 

She  stood  up.     "  I  must  read  it  again." 

She  tried  to  grasp  it  thoroughly,  and  eventually  suc- 
ceeded. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  and  looked  troubled.     "  Oh !  " 

"  Mother,"  said  Tim  comfortingly,  as  if  he  would  re- 
mind her  of  his  ever  present  help  in  the  time  of  trou- 
ble. 

"  Don't  say  anything,  dear,"  said  Emmie.  "  Wait  till 
I've  thought  about  it.  I'll  tell  you  later.  I  must  think  it 
over.  Oh !  "  She  read  the  letter  again. 

Tim  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"  You  mustn't  be  made  unhappy.  Mother." 

She  nodded  and  gasped  and  kissed  him. 


424  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

"  I  must  think  it  over,"  she  said.     "  I  am  ...  not 
.  .  .  unhappy.  .  .  ." 
This  was  the  letter: 

MY  DEAR  EMMIE: 

I  find  it  difficult  to  begin,  but  of  course  I  must  tell 
you  all.  You  wondered  why  I  left  you,  and  perhaps  ex- 
pected me  to  explain;  but  I  couldn't,  and  I  will  tell  you 
why. 

When  I  married  you  I  was  already  married  to  another 
woman. 

It  is  awful,  I  know,  and  I  can  only  hope  you  will  for- 
give me  when  you  know  all. 

I  did  not  know  I  was  married.     I  thought  I  was  free. 

When  I  travelled  in  Java  I  met  —  it  does  not  matter 
my  going  into  details  —  a  woman  whom  I  married.  She 
had  Javanese  blood  in  her,  and  I  did  not  tell  my  people 
of  the  marriage,  as  I  had  no  intention  of  taking  her  to 
England,  and  was  in  one  of  those  mad,  reckless  moods 
engendered  in  the  East,  and  was  prepared  at  that  time 
to  settle  down  there.  But  the  marriage  turned  out  a 
miserable  failure,  and  in  the  end  I  decided  to  go  back  to 
England  and  my  wife  agreed  to  get  a  divorce,  for  deser- 
tion is  a  sufficient  cause  to  dissolve  a  marriage  in  this 
country. 

I  kept  my  part  of  the  bargain:  I  paid  money  and  I 
went  home.  I  received  a  letter  saying  that  the  divorce 
had  been  pronounced,  and  that  I  was  free.  I  told  no- 
body. Then  I  met  you.  I  did  not  tell  you.  I  ought  to 
have  done,  perhaps,  but  it  might  possibly  have  made  no 
difference  to  you:  I  hope  not.  At  any  rate  that  omis- 
sion caused  me  no  regrets. 

But  soon  after  we  had  been  married  —  about  fourteen 
months  after,  to  be  precise  —  I  met  my  wife  in  Man- 
chester. She  then  told  me  we  were  not  divorced,  and  that 
she  was  still  my  wife.  I  had  committed  bigamy,  and 
you.  .  .  . 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  425 

Perhaps  I  was  weak.  I  might  have  told  you,  but  I 
couldn't.  I  felt  you  would  feel  humiliated.  I  tried  to 
do  the  obvious  thing  for  a  man  placed  as  I  was  —  I 
bought  off  my  wife,  who  seemed  to  be  filled  with  hate 
of  me  and  jealousy  of  you.  She  had  followed  me  to  Eng- 
land and  made  no  attempt  to  get  a  divorce,  but  —  I  pre- 
sume —  sent,  or  caused  to  be  sent  to  me,  the  letter  which 
said  it  had  been  granted. 

Hence  my  thefts.  You  will  understand:  I  thieved 
to  save  you.  I  had  to  have  money  or  see  you  humiliated. 
The  blackmail  went  on,  but  after  a  while  my  wife  began 
to  tire  of  the  English  climate  and  wished  to  return  to 
Java.  She  would  not,  however,  leave  me  without  telling 
you  the  whole  story  of  your  position.  To  save  you  from 
that  I  had  to  promise  money  and  to  leave  you,  and  as  a 
guarantee  that  I  would  keep  from  you  I  had  to  return 
to  the  East. 

I  wonder  now  if  you  understand.  This  was  why  I 
was  silent,  why  I  could  not  explain,  why  I  simply  left 
you. 

I  traded  in  the  East,  made  my  wife  an  allowance  on 
condition  she  kept  silent  over  our  marriage  ceremony  — 
yours  and  mine  —  and  waited  for  death,  which  I  thought 
of  hastening  more  than  once.  But  I  have  lived  and  my 
wife  has  died.  I  saw  her  corpse;  I  saw  her  buried,  and 
so  ends  a  chapter. 

What  of  the  next,  Emmie?  I  am  in  your  hands.  We 
were  happy,  weren't  we?  The  East  is  dazzling,  but  it 
\ras  Hell  to  me.  I  wonder  I  have  survived.  Its  trials 
were  tortures;  its  beauties  became  sores.  I  was  always 
wondering :  "  What  is  Emmie  doing  ?  .  .  .  What  is 
my  darling  thinking?  .  .  .  Does  she  fret  at  all?  What 
does  she  think  of  me?"  And  I  could  not  write.  I  did 
not  want  you  to  know  where  I  was.  I  changed  my  name 
on  this  second  visit,  and  those  who  knew  me  regarded  me 
as  a  scoundrel.  But  I  was  fearful  for  you. 

Now  if  I  can  do  anything  to  wipe  out  the  past,  I  will. 


426  AN     AVERAGE    WOMAN 

But  first  and  last,  Emmie,  I  want  you.  You  may  not 
know  what  a  certain  type  of  woman,  the  type  one  wants, 
will  do  for  a  man.  You  kept  me  clean  and  straight  and 
decent  and  honourable  in  the  steaming,  stinking  quarters 
of  New  Guinea  and  Sumatra  and  China.  If  ever  I  were 
tempted  I  said  "  Emmie."  ...  At  the  other  end  of  the 
world,  in  a  place  where  men  can  reek  and  stink  and  play 
false  to  almost  everything,  I  mentioned  your  name  in  a 
whisper  to  myself,  and  it  led  me  through  the  rottenest 
of  rotten  swamps  as  if  I  were  in  a  microbe-proof  case. 
It  was  like  being  guarded  by  angels.  It  was  my  watch- 
word — "  Emmie.  .  .  ." 

I  am  free  now.  We  can  be  married  now.  ...  It 
seems  curious,  but  I  fear  lest  you  may  wish  to  go  on  as 
you  are.  Don't  you  love  me,  Emmie?  Have  you  for- 
gotten me?  I  want  you  —  you,  always  you.  If  you 
asked  me  what  you  meant  to  me  I  can  only  say,  every- 
thing. I  see  your  face  everywhere  and  hear  your  voice 
at  every  breath  of  wind. 

When  that  creature  died,  just  outside  Batavia,  I  kept 
muttering  to  myself :  Now  I  am  free  —  free  to  see  Em- 
mie, free  to  be  with  Emmie.  .  .  . 

And  I  feel  it  so  much,  dear,  I  am  afraid.  I  fear 
lest  you  think  that  as  I  went  so  I  may  be  forever  gone. 
Don't  let  it  come  to  that.  Don't  break  my  life,  though 
I  know  I  must  have  hurt  yours ;  but  now  that  you  under- 
stand, can  you  forgive?  You  must  forgive,  dear,  and 
we  are  still  young  enough,  thank  God!  to  enjoy  life  to- 
gether. 

I  propose  this  —  that  you  come  quietly  here  to  Paris, 
or  that  I  meet  you  anywhere  we  are  least  likely  to  attrac- 
tion, and  get  married.  We  will  tell  nobody.  But,  at 
least,  you  will  be  Mrs.  Tame  by  right,  when  once  that 
ceremony  has  been  gone  through.  Then.  .  .  .  Let  us 
live  together  somewhere.  I  can't  live  without  you.  I 
have  lived  till  now  so  that  I  might  right  you  if  ever  the 
chance  should  come,  but  I  cannot  go  on  living  hopelessly 


AN    AVERAGE    WOMAN  427 

—  not,  at  least,  with  any  credit  or  benefit  to  anybody. 
I  know  I  shall  crumple  up  and  become  worthless  unless  I 
have  you  as  my  wife  again.  And  we  can  be  happy.  We 
need  not  live  in  Canton  unless  you  wish.  We  can  travel 
a  little,  and  then  settle  anywhere.  I  am  very  anxious  to 
hear  how  Tim  and  Alice  are  —  and  Ernest  and  the  works, 
and  grandpa  and  the  aunts  and  uncles  and  father  and 
mother  and  sister.  .  .  . 

But  I  will  be  absolutely  at  your  wishes.  If  you  don't 
want  to  live  with  me  again  —  I  will  suffer  the  banishment 
and  never  trouble  you.  But  I  plead,  Emmie.  .  .  . 

I  will  marry  you  if  and  how  you  wish  and,  if  neces- 
sary, leave  you  at  the  church  door.  But  I  want  to  marry 
you  again  and  live  with  you  again,  be  your  husband  again, 
know  that  at  last  I  have  you  really  as  my  wife  after  all 
this  tribulation. 

I  shall  hope  to  hear  from  you  very  soon  —  let  it  be 
that  —  and  I  pray  for  forgiveness  and  a  happy  issue  out 
of  our  afflictions. 

With  all  the  love  that  a  man  can  bear  to  a  woman  I 
send  this  letter. 

Your  penitent  and  loving 

REGINALD. 

Tim  was  standing. 

Emmie  looked  dazed. 

"  Can  I  ...  do  anything,  Mother?"  he  asked. 

Emmie  sighed  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Leave  me  a  while.  ...  I  must  think  for  a  bit." 

"  Right." 

He  went  into  the  works. 

Emmie  felt  in  a  whirl.  Certain  ideas  and  phrases  were 
ringing  in  her  head.  She  was  principally  concerned  with 
the  fact  that  Reginald  was  alive,  and  had  written  a  letter 
to  her  and  that  she  was  not  married  to  him.  Those  two 
facts  seemed  to  stand  beside  her  and  shout  at  her  con- 


428  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

tinually.  She  looked  at  the  letter  —  three  sheets  of  paper. 
..."  My  dear  Emmie.  Your  penitent  and  loving  Regi- 
nald." 

What  a  letter!     What  news! 

He  was  alive  and.  .  .  .  But  what  a  tale !     What  a  tale ! 

He  had  been  married  before  ...  to  one  of  those  half- 
castes. 

Emmie  imagined  her  with  black  eyes  and  big  breasts 
and  a  knife  in  her  hand. 

She  read  the  letter  again,  and  phrases  then  began  to 
make  impressions.  ..."  When  I  married  you  I  was 
already  married  to  another  woman.  .  .  ." 

The  sentence  was  like  a  blow  from  a  whip.  Then: 
"  I  did  not  know  I  was  married :  I  thought  I  was  free. .  . ." 

Emmie  recalled  the  scenes  at  Blackpool  with  wonderful 
vividness.  They  softened  her :  they  flung  a  glamour  over 
the  whole  tale.  No.  He  thought  he  was  free.  .  .  .  He 
had  probably  thought  of  living  in  that  enervating  climate, 
picked  up  with  this  horrible  woman  with  the  curly  hair 
and  thick  lips  and  breasts  and  hips  —  Emmie  shuddered. 
She  did  not  like  to  think  of  Reginald  attracted  by  that 
woman.  And  then  blackmailed!  She  could  understand 
now.  The  monster  had  followed  him  and  threatened  to 
tell.  He  was  caught.  .  .  . 

How  awful  it  must  have  been !  It  was  going  on  while 
he  was  scheming  big  things  for  T.  Booke  &  Son. 

Emmie  began  to  feel  sorry  for  Reginald.  He  had 
suffered.  He  must  have  suffered.  And  then  been  forced 
to  go  away.  ... 

Emmie  was  filled  with  pity.  He  loved  her.  He  had 
always  loved  her.  He  had  gone  away  to  save  her. 

But  she  was  not  married.  .  .  . 

She  looked  round  the  room  as  if  instinctively  she  would 
have  nobody  near  her  when  she  considered  that.  Not 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  429 

married.  .  .  .  And  she  had  lived  with  him  as  his  wife. . . . 

She  put  her  face  in  her  hands  with  shame. 

After  a  time  she  looked  up.  She  had  to  face  that.  It 
was  not  her  fault  .  .  .  and  not  really  his.  He  thought 
he  was  free.  .  .  .  But  if  people  knew!  It  would  be 
awful. 

Emmie  walked  about  as  if  she  would  face  that  fact 
fairly.  Living  with  a  man  without  being  married  to 
him. 

She  realised  she  was  only  afraid  of  what  people  would 
say  if  they  knew.  She  had  no  really  great  upbraiding  of 
conscience  the  more  she  thought  about  it  She  didn't 
know  she  was  doing  wrong.  She  tried  to  do  right:  she 
got  married  properly.  It  wasn't  her  fault  if  some  wretch 
of  a  creature  with  a  hideous  mouth  and  with  hair  like  a 
mop  was  a  villain  and  tricked  Reginald.  .  .  .  They 
couldn't  help  that.  ...  Of  course,  she  wouldn't  like  peo- 
ple to  know,  because  people  always  talked.  Think  of 
Aunt  Jane!  Now  Emmie  felt  stirred,  felt  what  she  had 
before  construed  as  shame. 

Not  married.  ...  It  was  an  awkward  situation:  like 
what  happened  at  the  theatre  or  in  a  book.  .  .  . 

She  began  to  think  of  Reginald  again.  What  was  he 
like?  Had  he  changed? 

But  what  was  she  going  to  do?  He  suggested  they 
should  get  married.  That  was  comical.  Get  married. 
.  .  .  But  it  was  a  wise  suggestion.  She  couldn't  really 
honestly  call  herself  Mrs.  Tame  till  she  was  married. 
He  suggested  Paris  or  any  place  where  they  were  least 
likely  to  attract  attention.  .  .  .  Then  she  would  be  Mrs. 
Tame  .  .  .  and  he  would  leave  her  at  the  church  door 
if  she  wished.  .  .  . 

She  felt  softened  at  that.  It  was  good  of  him  to  sug- 
gest that.  Marry  and  then  leave  her.  .  .  . 


430  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Leave  her  ?  Why  ?  .  .  .  Why  should  she  let  her  hus- 
band go  away  ?  She  loved  her  husband. 

Tim  came  in. 

"  Well,  Mother,"  he  said. 

"  Oh !     Tim  —  you  haven't  told  anybody?  " 

"No.     Who  is  there  to  tell?" 

"  Ernest." 

"  No.  I  only  saw  him  for  a  minute  —  something's 
gone  wrong  in  that  proof  shop  again." 

"I  hope  they'll  be  careful  there,  Tim.  You'd  better 
see  to  it  as  well.  You  know  what  a  job  it  will  be  if 
there's  too  much  evaporation  there." 

"It's  all  right,  Mother.  Ernest  is  seeing  to  it ;  be- 
sides, it  isn't  serious." 

"  Oh !  about  your  father.  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  yet.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  able 
to  tell  you  what  has  happened,  but  .  .  ."  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  Is  he  coming  here  ?  " 

Emmie  hesitated. 

"  N-no.  .  .  .  Not  yet  at  any  rate.  ...  I  may  go  to 
him  first." 

Emmie  felt  her  situation  was  one  that  could  only  be 
dealt  with  by  herself.  The  past  was  done.  She  might 
repent  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  go  into  a  nunnery  or  con- 
tinue as  she  was  —  the  past  would  still  be  there.  She 
was  practical.  The  question  for  her  to  answer  now  was : 
Would  she  marry  Reginald  again  and  live  with  him  ? 

Now  that  she  knew  why  he  had  left  her  she  began  to 
think  of  nothing  but  going  back  to  him.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  no  other  course  was  sensible  or  wise  or  so  happy. 
He  had  come  to  her  as  a  lost  treasure  that  was  found. 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  431 

She  began  to  think  of  him  with  a  bold  desire  and  a  fine 
gladness.  She  said  she  had  no  need  to  ask  Grandpa  or 
Aunt  Maria  or  Aunt  Jane  or  Aunt  Sophia  what  she  ought 
to  do  —  she  knew  what  she  wanted  —  and  meant  to  do. 
After  all  these  years.  .  .  .  She  walked  about  and  sat 
down  thrilled  with  a  joy  she  had  scarcely  hoped  to  catch 
again.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  ...  A  few 
crow's  feet,  a  little  bloom  gone,  a  grey  hair  or  so,  and  a 
little  more  bulk,  but  .  .  .  Emmie,  the  Emmie,  beautiful, 
a  good  heart  and  head,  even  tempered  and  made  for  a 
man.  .  .  . 

"  Tim  —  I'm  going  to  London." 

"Oh!" 

"  To  your  father." 

Tim  looked  to  see  if  his  mother  was  happy  and  was 
assured. 

**  We  shall  probably  go  on  to  Paris.  ...  I  don't  know 
what  we  shall  do  after  —  I  mean  where  we  shall  live." 

"It's  all  right,  Mother?" 

"  Yes.  I  understand  everything.  You'd  like  to  see 
your  father  again?  " 

"  Yes  —  if  you  do." 

Emmie  smiled.     If  she  did ! 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  tell  you  what  parted 
us,  but  ...  it  ...  er  —  well,  it  was  nothing  that 
crossed  our  affection  for  each  other." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  him 
again." 

"  He  wants  to  see  you,  too.  I'm  going  to-morrow  by 
the  eigbt  o'clock  train." 

"  Early." 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  be  in  London  as  soon  as  possible. 
Your  father  will  meet  me  there.  .  I'll  write  and  tell 


432  AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN 

you  what  we  are  going  to  do.  I  want  you  to  say  nothing 
till  I've  left  and  then  you  can  say  I've  gone  to  meet  Mr. 
Tame.  You  can  tell  Ernest  and  Grandpa  —  anybody 
who  asks  you,  for  that  matter." 

Tim  nodded.  He  was  more  like  Ernmie  than  his  own 
father  —  dark  and  distinguished  looking  and  had  a  gen- 
tlemanly air.  Uppingham  and  Reginald  had  done  him 
good. 

He  and  Alice  saw  their  mother  off  at  the  station,  and 
when  she  had  gone  Alice  said  to  Tim :  "  Funny,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Mother  didn't  tell  you  where  father  had  been  and 
what  he'd  been  doing?" 

"  No." 

"  I  would  like  to  know,"  said  Alice. 

"What  does  Albert  say?" 

Alice  shook  herself. 

"  He  says,  what's  the  good  of  worrying  —  but  he'd  like 
to  know  all  the  same,"  she  added  almost  fiercely. 

Tim  laughed,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  went  to  the  works. 

It  was  a  memorable  railway  journey  for  Emmie.  She 
joined  the  main  train  for  Euston  at  Stockport  and  was 
very  impatient  to  reach  London  and  Reginald.  There 
were  two  men  in  the  carriage  and  a  lady  with  a  little  boy 
about  10  years  of  age.  Emmie  wondered  what  they  were 
all  going  to  London  for  —  if  they  went  as  far.  .  .  .  She 
thought  one  of  the  men  was  a  commercial:  he  looked  a 
bit  like  Mr.  Rogers,  one  of  her  travellers  —  a  ruddy  faced 
man  with  a  long  drooping  moustache.  He  settled  him- 
self in  the  corner  and  began  reading  a  magazine  as  if  he 
knew  how  to  make  a  railway  journey  pass.  The  other 
man  was  more  distinguished,  a  retired  army  man,  Emmie 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  433 

thought,  till  she  wondered  if  she  were  not  accustomed  to 
think  that  all  gentlemanly  looking  men  with  grey  mous- 
taches and  rather  red  cheeks  were  retired  officers.  She 
wondered  why  he  was  going  to  town  ...  on  business  or 
pleasure.  .  .  .  He  looked  fidgetty. 

And  the  woman.  She  was  one  of  those  women  you 
couldn't  read:  might  be  anything.  She  was  not  richly 
dressed ;  her  features  were  regular,  and  showed  a  general 
harmony. 

Emmie  had  got  her  back  to  the  engine  and  the  other 
lady  facing  her  said :  "  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  put 
this  window  up;  it's  too  draughty." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Emmie,  and  she  thought,  "  What  a 
nice  voice!  She's  a  lady!  "  And  they  began  to  talk. 

Every  now  and  again  Emmie  wanted  to  say :  "  You'll 
never  guess  what  I'm  going  to  do.  ...  I'm  going  to  be 
married  .  .  .  to  my  husband! " 

The  lady  talked  very  nicely,  and  told  Emmie  a  good 
deal  of  her  history :  her  husband  was  a  naval  officer,  and 
the  little  boy  was  going  to  school  near  London  next  term 
if  he  passed  an  examination  which  he  was  going  in  for. 
Her  husband  was  at  Hong  Kong.  .  ,  .  Naval  officers 
were  away  a  long  time.  .  .  . 

And  then,  after  much  conversation,  the  commercial 
traveller  (supposed)  took  off  his  cap,  which  he  put  in  a 
bag,  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"  We  are  near  now,  aren't  we  ?  "  said  Emmie. 

"  Be  there  in  five  minutes  or  so,"  said  the  man.  Emmie 
began  to  feel  very  agitated.  In  five  minutes  she  would 
meet  Reginald  again.  She  began  to  pull  little  ends 
straight  —  her  lace  collar,  the  lace  at  her  cuffs.  .  .  .  She 
pulled  her  big  hat  to  the  proper  angle. 

The  lady  said :     "  Have  you  anybody  to  meet  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmie,  wishing  to  say,  "  My  husband," 


434  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

but  a  sort  of  healthy  instinct  for  truth  kept  her  from  that. 
"  Have  you?  "  she  asked  instead. 

"  No." 

As  Emmie  got  out  of  the  carriage  she  looked  about. 
Nobody.  .  .  .  He  was  not  there.  .  .  .  Not  there.  .  .  . 

"Emmie!" 

She  turned  round. 

"Oh!" 

People  looking  after  their  luggage  looked  up  to  see 
these  people  of  untender  years  greeting  each  other  so 
warmly.  One  or  two  sympathised :  the  streams  of  age 
seemed  robuster  and  deeper  than  the  boisterous  currents 
of  youth,  and  love  was  not  only  for  the  young.  The 
young  seem  inclined  to  mock. 

"  Darling,"  he  whispered. 

Emmie's  chin  was  shaking.  She  looked  at  him  with 
glistening  eyes.  He  was  greyer  than  she  and  slightly 
thinner  than  before.  But  he  was  still  Reginald.  The 
look  in  his  eyes  was  Reginald's  —  the  voice  was  the  voice 
of  old;  the  manner,  too. 

Emmie  felt  as  if  she  could  shut  her  eyes  and  picture  a 
cliff  on  Blackpool  beach. 

"  We  must  get  away,"  he  said,  holding  one  of  her 
hands  in  his  as  if  he  could  not  lose  her.  "  Where's  your 
luggage?" 

A  porter  came  up  and  soon  they  were  in  a  cab. 

Emmie  looked  at  him  again. 

He  put  an  arm  round  her  shoulder. 

"  Were  you  glad  to  hear  from  me,  Emmie?  " 

She  nodded.  There  were  tears  on  her  cheeks  —  tears 
of  happiness. 

"  I  think  I  told  you  all.  I  scarcely  hoped  for  this.  It 
looked  sometimes  as  if  I  might  go  first." 

"Oh!  ...  That!"     She  gasped. 


AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN  435 

"  But  I  didn't." 

"  No." 

"  And  now  we  are  to  be  married.  All's  ready,  and 
after  the  ceremony  we  go  to  Paris.  You've  scarcely 
changed,  dear;  you're  just  as  beautiful  as  you  always  were 
and  you're  still  Emmie  .  .  .  my  Emmie." 

He  bent  her  face  to  him  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  This  life  has  the  most  amazing  surprises  any  man 
can  think  of.  I  meet  you  —  I  might  never  have  met  you, 
think  of  that.  I  meet  you,  marry  you,  leave  you  .  .  . 
and  now  I  have  you  again,  till  death  us  do  part." 

Emmie  looked  at  him  a  moment  and  then  flung  her 
arms  round  him  and  held  him  in  a  passionate  embrace. 

Just  as  the  story  of  Reginald's  leaving  had  travelled 
round  street  and  fireside,  so  the  tale  of  his  return  had  a 
similar  success,  thus  belying  the  fate  of  most  sequels. 

Tim  told  Ernest,  who  went  about  unable  to  do  business 
all  the  morning.  Then  Grandpa  heard  it  and  as  he  was 
getting  older  he  had  to  be  told  twice,  and  said,  "  Come 
back,  has  he  ?  He's  had  a  long  holiday." 

And  when  the  Booke  ladies  got  it  they  made  a  descent 
on  Tim,  who  was  polite  and  pleasant  with  his  aunts,  but 
could  tell  them  nothing  they  desired  to  know.  Every- 
body wanted  to  know,  of  course,  why  Mr.  Tame  went 
away,  where  he  had  been,  and  what  he  had  been  doing. 

Emmie  wrote  letters  from  Paris  to  her  parents  and  re- 
lations telling  of  her  reunion  with  her  husband,  and  beg- 
ging that  neither  he  nor  she  may  be  asked  questions  about 
the  past. 

Miss  Booke  looked  at  Mrs.  Holten  and  sniffed  at  that. 
"  Not  ask  questions.  .  .  .  What  were  they  there  for? 
What  were  they  to  do  if  they  weren't  to  ask  questions? 
Not  ask  questions  indeed !  " 


436  AN     AVERAGE     WOMAN 

Even  in  her  letter  Aunt  Jane  said  that  explanations 
were  due  to  the  family  and,  though  outsiders  might  prop- 
erly be  put  off,  she  trusted  there  would  be  no  attempt 
made  to  leave  her  without  a  proper  understanding  of  what 
had  really  happened.  She  must  insist  on  that. 

Reginald  and  Emmie,  very  happy  in  Paris,  read  the  let- 
ter seriously  and  then  comically. 

"  Bless  her !  She  really  thinks  she  ought  to  know," 
he  said. 

"  But  she  won't,"  said  Emmie. 

"No,  she  won't.     What  will  you  say?" 

"  I  shall  just  say,  I  won't  tell  you,  Aunt  Jane." 

"And  if  she  is  offended?" 

"  Let  her  be.  She'll  think  I'm  in  the  wrong  and  most 
undutiful  and  all  that,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

Reginald  laughed. 

"  She'll  tackle  me." 

"  And  what  will  you  say  ?  " 

"  That  since  we  don't  want  to  tell,  no  nice  people  will 
want  to  ask." 

Emmie  chuckled. 

"  You'll  be  too  polite  for  her." 

They  stayed  in  Paris  a  fortnight  and  during  that  time 
discussed  their  future.  They  would  live  in  Canton  or 
near  it.  Emmie  wanted  to  be  not  far  from  her  children 
and  they  knew  the  Ganton  people  would  receive  Reginald 
again  with  a  little  chaffing  and  raillery,  but  satisfied  that 
if  his  wife  was  content  there  was  no  reason  for  them  to 
put  on  airs. 

And  there  were  plenty  of  years  for  Reginald  and 
Emmie  taking  a  general  computation,  and  life  offered 
them  its  flowers  and  fantasies.  Reginald  wanted  to 
know  all  about  the  works,  how  the  new  machinery  was 


AN    AVERAGE     WOMAN  437 

working,  if  A.  B.  &  Co.  still  sent  big  orders,  and  if 
Canada  and  Japan  were  still  good  markets. 

As  they  sat  discussing  matters  at  a  cafe  near  the  opera 
and  noticed  young,  middle-aged,  and  old,  all  engaged  in 
sipping  at  life  and  looking  out  upon  it  with  a  great  curi- 
osity or  criticism,  Reginald  said :  "  Life's  full  of  curious 
adventures,  Emmie." 

"Isn't  it?" 

"  Has  yours  been  as  you  pictured  it  when  you  were 
young?  " 

"  Not  a  bit" 

"  Nor  mine.  I  wonder  is  anybody's  ?  It  goes  evenly : 
then  there's  a  jerk.  One  goes  along  a  plain,  then  climbs 
a  precipice.  .  .  .  And  so  many  people  are  the  same. 
Occasionally  we  are  apt  to  think  that  only  certain  people 
have  really  thrilling  moments  in  their  lives,  only  a  few 
go  over  the  Russian  mountains,  and  for  the  rest  it  is, 
speaking  generally,  a  humdrum  existence."  He  shook 
his  head.  "If  the  tale  of  an  average  person  could  be 
written  it  would  be  full  of  depths  and  heights  and  thrills 
and  excitements,  with  certain  things  in  it  we  tell  to  no- 
body." 

Emmie  nodded.  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  him  talk  like 
this. 

She  seemed  to  be  remanded  of  something.  "  I  remem- 
ber Aunt  Maria  once  telling  me  I  was  just  an  average 
woman  —  do  you  think  I  am  ?  " 

"  An  average  woman  .  .  ."  He  shook  his  head. 
"  Preposterous."  Then  he  laid  his  hand  on  her's  and  a 
jolly  look  came  into  his  eyes,  which  recalled  to  Emmie 
the  times  when  he  talked  fantastically  to  the  children. 
"  An  average  woman  .  .  ."  he  repeated.  "  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  dear,  I  don't  believe  there  is  such  a  person." 


A     000  040  580    3 


